


I Have Heart-Fire and Singing to Give

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [8]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Endearments, Fluff and Smut, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other, Singing, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Jaskier is invited to come and sing at Oxenfurt - an honor he has never dreamed he would be granted so young. But leaving Kaer Morhen has its perils...and there are those who would very much like to get their hands on the Consort of the Warlord of the North.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 732
Kudos: 4054
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. Chapter 1

This is _far_ too good to be true. Jaskier _knows_ this isn’t the sort of thing a young bard gets - _any_ young bard, no matter how famous: an invitation, on official university letterhead, to come and perform at Oxenfurt, to show off his masterwork, the song cycle he’s spent the last several years developing. You don’t get an invitation like this unless you’re as old as the hills and every two-bit singer in eight countries knows your repertoire by heart…

Or unless you’re very, very wealthy and politically powerful, and the dons of Oxenfurt would very much like to curry favor with you.

Jaskier may not be obscenely wealthy, but it could easily be argued that he’s one of the three most powerful men in the northern half of the continent.

“That’s quite an expression, little flower,” Yen says, draping herself elegantly over her usual chair on the other side of the council table. “Henselt of Temeria again?”

“No,” Jaskier says, and pushes the invitation across the table to her. Yen picks it up and scans it quickly, and both her perfect eyebrows rise to nearly meet her hairline.

“I know we’ve been spreading your songs as far as they’ll go, and I’ll even admit they’re good songs, but this seems...overenthusiastic,” she says at last.

“Oh, it very much is,” Jaskier agrees. “They don’t want Jaskier the bard. They want Jaskier the Consort, and they’re hoping I’ll remember Oxenfurt kindly enough that when the White Wolf gets around to conquering the rest of Redania, I won’t let him sack the university.”

“Ah,” Yen says, and drops the invitation back on the table. “And yet you still want to go.”

Jaskier leans back in his chair with a sigh. “Oh, _desperately_ ,” he admits. “I want to rub this invitation in Valdo fucking Marx’s _face_ , that he could spend the next four decades trying and _never_ be as famous as I am - or ever write anything as seminal as the _Wolf Rising_ cycle. And hells, I’d love to stick my name on a library or a lecture hall and let my family fucking _choke_ on the fact that they’ll never be rich and powerful enough to put _Lettenhove_ anywhere on the campus grounds.” He waves a hand. “Of course I _want_ to go, Yen. I’m just not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Vicious little flower,” Yen says fondly, and taps her fingers on her knee where it’s draped over the arm of her chair. “I can see some good arguments for and against, actually. We’ll run it past the rest of the council, see what everyone else thinks.”

“Run what past us?” Eskel asks, coming in and dropping a kiss on the crown of Jaskier’s head before settling into the chair beside him. “And what havoc have you and the little menace wreaked today, catmint?”

“None whatsoever,” Jaskier says, leaning over to kiss Eskel’s cheek in greeting. Eskel turns his head so the kiss lands on his lips instead, and Jaskier chuckles and makes it a _good_ one, soft and warm without being filthy.

“Oh, so Milena was there,” Eskel says, grinning.

“Milena isn’t as much of a restraining influence as you might think,” Jaskier points out. “She’s just quieter about it.”

“Yes, I know,” Eskel agrees. “That’s why she likes Lambert so much.”

Yen laughs. “I have it on good authority it’s also because he’s damned good in bed,” she says as the door opens and Geralt and Vesemir come in together.

“Why are we discussing skill in bedsport?” Vesemir asks wearily, as Geralt comes over to Jaskier and Eskel. Jaskier raises his face for a kiss, and gets one, sweet and warm; and then he gets to watch as Eskel gets a kiss, too, which elicits a tiny warm smile like he _still_ can’t believe Geralt returns his affection so wholeheartedly. It’s adorable. Jaskier adores them both _so much_.

“Trying to figure out what Milena sees in Lambert,” Yen says, grinning. Vesemir groans.

“The one inexplicable gap in her otherwise flawless sensible nature,” he says, and then, with rueful fairness, “Well, no. It _would_ be, if he was still a complete asshole.”

“These days he’s only half the ass he used to be,” Jaskier agrees. “Here, Yen, toss that over, let everyone have a look at it. We aren’t _actually_ going to spend the whole afternoon mocking Lambert, even if that would probably be more amusing.”

Yen passes the invitation to Vesemir, and Eskel leans over to read it; Geralt leans on the back of Vesemir’s chair.

“Dangerous,” Vesemir says at last, putting the invitation down and frowning at it. “Oxenfurt’s deep in unconquered Redania, and right near Temeria, too. And you’re quite a prize for anyone who wants to strike at the Wolf.”

Jaskier nods. “A large enough escort would offset that, but too many Witchers and it will look like an invasion force. Threading that needle would be...interesting.”

“On the other hand, doing this _would_ send a message that the Wolf intends to leave Oxenfurt - and, by extension, the rest of Redania - alone unless they do something idiotic,” Yen points out. “And it would give you a chance to talk to some more of the young nobility and wealthy merchants’ children of the north. Your little discussion with Milena’s friends has already borne fruit; more young lords-to-be who look favorably on the Wolf could only be a good thing.”

Jaskier nods. Milena’s friends _have_ ended up being damned useful, even if only in small ways so far. They have a thriving correspondence with Milena, which means that Kaer Morhen has a window into the internal politics of Redania’s court. The young nobles aren’t precisely _spying_ for Kaer Morhen, but they certainly don’t censor their letters as vigilantly as Milena and Yennefer censor _hers_ , and the result is that the White Wolf’s council has a _far_ better insight into the prevailing rumors and opinions of the Redanian court than they did when Jaskier first arrived. The clusterfuck that resulted in Jaskier being sent as tribute couldn’t happen now - not without the White Wolf hearing about it _well_ ahead of time, at any rate.

Having similar networks in other courts would, indeed, be of great benefit to the Wolf’s council. And - “If I brought Milena,” he says thoughtfully, “she could make it clear that she’s in Kaer Morhen of her own free will, not being kept captive by the Warlord’s vengeful right hand.” That being the most long-lived of the nasty rumors started by Marta de Roggeven when she got back to Tretogor.

“You’d have to bring Lambert, too, then,” Eskel observes.

Jaskier shrugs. “Naturally. He can come and tell all the poetry professors how terrible most love poetry is. It’ll be hilarious.”

Lambert’s distaste for almost all love poetry isn’t exactly _common_ knowledge, but he’s come to Jaskier so many times, complaining that all the poems in the books Jaskier finds for him are too flowery and overly metaphorical, and so few of them actually say anything _meaningful_ , that the rest of the council has also heard about his ongoing quest to find poetry worthy of being recited to his lady love. It’s fucking adorable.

Geralt snorts. “I thought we wanted to be diplomatic.”

“Eh, professors love arguing. They’ll think Lambert’s the best thing since bathhouses,” Jaskier assures him. “ _That_ won’t be a problem.”

“Still dangerous,” Vesemir says slowly. “But with a large enough escort, and if Yennefer portals you in and out, and you don’t stay long - and if you don’t send a response until the last possible moment - it could work.”

“How many Witchers is a large enough escort?” Jaskier asks.

Vesemir hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Twenty,” he decides at last, and Geralt nods.

“ _Twenty?_ ” Jaskier says.

“Fourteen was enough for a jaunt _inside_ the Wolf’s lands,” Eskel points out. “This is enemy territory, though, no matter what promises of safety they make. Twenty, and you stay within sight of a guard at all times.” He pauses and frowns. “And one of them should probably be me.”

Geralt nods again. “Eskel to command,” he says. “ _One_ of us needs to be watching out for you, little lark, and it can’t be me. That really _would_ look like an invasion.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose at his lovers, but he can already tell this isn’t an argument he’s going to win. “Alright, twenty Witchers, Eskel in command,” he says. “And I stay within sight of my guard at all times. So does Milena.”

Geralt nods. “With those precautions...yes. You can go.”

Jaskier beams. He’s going to go sing the _Wolf Rising_ cycle to what’s probably going to be most of Oxenfurt, and maybe put his name on a building, and all the professors who ever looked down their noses at him because he wasn’t important or politically motivated, or because he was an unrepentant flirt with the gall to still be a brilliant student, or because he dared to prefer songs people actually wanted to _sing_ to songs with impenetrable metaphors and complicated melodies that only trained musicians could ever dream of mastering - all of them will have to be polite to him, and applaud his songs, and choke on their own bile.

“Vicious little flower, you’re gloating very loudly,” Yen says, chuckling. Jaskier winks at her.

“I can gloat louder, if you like,” he offers.

Vesemir sighs and puts a hand over his eyes. “Is there _other_ business, or can I leave you to your banter?”

“Actually there is,” Eskel says. “What do we want first: Baron Filip’s request to send his daughter to become one of the little menace’s ladies-in-waiting, or Jan’s report on the most recent income from the ichor-dying process?”

“We should have Milena and Ciri in for the discussion of adding more ladies-in-waiting,” Jaskier says. “So I guess let’s have Jan’s report.”

Vesemir sighs in relief, and they settle in for a proper council session as though they’re all the sober sensible people everyone in the White Wolf’s lands assumes they are.

*

“Of course I’d be delighted to come along,” Milena says, beaming. Lambert, whose lap she is sitting in, makes a grumbling noise.

“I’m coming too,” he says firmly.

“That wasn’t really in question,” Jaskier says, grinning and lounging back against Geralt’s chest. He _loves_ these afternoon baths in the hot springs, all his favorite people gathered around and talking and snuggling and being _happy_. “We wouldn’t dare take Milena anywhere without you.”

“Fucking right you wouldn’t,” Lambert says. Milena giggles.

“Can I come?” Ciri asks, and then sputters as the water Eskel is scooping over her hair trickles down into her mouth. “Uncle _Eskel!_ ”

“Stop fidgeting, cub,” Eskel says, smiling fondly down at her. “And no, you can’t go. We’d have to send a hundred Witchers to keep you safe, and that point we might as well just invade and call it a day.”

Ciri giggles. “When I’m older maybe?”

“Maybe when you’re older,” Eskel allows. “ _Much_ older. When you’re thirty, perhaps. What do you think, Wolf?”

“Make it forty,” Geralt says, voice rumbling in Jaskier’s ear, chest shaking with silent laughter.

“ _Papa!_ ” Ciri objects. “That’s _forever_ from now!”

“Hm,” Geralt says, propping his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder and smiling at his daughter.

“I’ll take notes on everything, and tell you all about it,” Milena promises. “But it’s probably just going to be a great deal of talking to people who think they’re much more important than they really are, and then listening to Jaskier sing - and you get to hear that almost every night.”

Ciri wrinkles her nose and sighs. “Alright, if you’ll take notes,” she says reluctantly. “ _And_ bring me a book.”

“I will happily buy out a bookshop for you,” Jaskier says. “I know several good ones.”

“Yay!” Ciri cheers, and twirls in a circle, and slips off the seat and under the water, surfacing again in a moment and blowing water like a whale. Eskel slides down under the surface and emerges again from under her, lifting her in his arms as she flails and laughs.

“Papa, save me!” she yells happily, and Geralt shifts Jaskier gently off his lap onto the seat and lunges forward. Eskel dodges out of the way, holding Ciri up above his head, and Geralt swivels around far faster than anyone should be able to in the water and snags Eskel around the waist, and Jaskier stands up on the carved stone ledge and plucks Ciri neatly out of Eskel’s hands as both Witchers go underwater in a flurry of splashes and bubbles. Lambert has tucked himself around Milena, keeping her sheltered between his body and the wall.

Jaskier puts Ciri down gently on the wet stone beside the pool, and she grins up at him. “Papa and Uncle Eskel are _very_ silly,” she confides.

Jaskier taps her nose. “That is the truest thing you have ever said, cub,” he informs her.

A long arm emerges from the splashing commotion and loops itself around Jaskier’s waist, and he widens his eyes in mock horror. “Flee!” he tells Ciri. “Save yourself!” And then he is yanked underwater, ending sandwiched between two Witchers, with one of them - he can’t quite tell which - kissing him hungrily.

They push him back to the surface well before he needs to worry about air, and Milena gives him a hand out of the pool; she and Lambert have clearly decided to cede the hot spring to Geralt and Eskel, and are already wrapped in towels. Lambert, the utterly shameless creature, has his towel draped over his shoulders instead of anywhere _useful_ ; Milena, who still remembers at least a little court-trained propriety, has wound hers around herself from chest to thighs.

Ciri hands Jaskier a towel. Jaskier grins down at her. “Your Papa and your Uncle Eskel are _immensely_ silly,” he says. “Shall we leave them to their game?”

Ciri nods. “I want Uncle Lambert to braid my hair for supper,” she announces, and Lambert sighs heavily, pretending to be much put-upon, which all three humans know is completely untrue. Lambert is very proud of his new braiding skills, and enjoys showing them off, in Milena’s hair or in Ciri’s, or even once in a while in Yen’s or Triss’s, on the rare occasions the sorceresses want to wear elaborate braids.

One of these days, Jaskier will get at Geralt’s hair while the White Wolf is too relaxed to object, but that hasn’t happened yet.

*

Jaskier finishes his set for the evening, beaming, and settles back into the double-wide chair he shares with Geralt, who wraps an arm around his waist and nuzzles against his hair with a happy hum.

“I like the new one with the fish,” Eskel offers, handing Jaskier a full tankard of ale.

“It’s very funny,” Ciri agrees.

“Oh good,” Jaskier says, taking the ale with one hand and reaching over to tug on Ciri’s braid with the other. “Glad you liked it.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees, pleased and amused. “Bedtime for good little cubs _and_ sweet little larks.”

Jaskier laughs and drains the tankard of ale before levering himself out of the chair again. “I shan’t complain. Eskel, are you joining us tonight?”

Eskel shakes his head. “I’ll be in later. Want to talk to Jan about hiring a new armorer.” Jan is usually least busy after supper, Jaskier knows. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“As please you, sweetheart,” Jaskier says, and bends to brush his lips against Eskel’s, soft and unhurried. Geralt, Ciri tucked under one arm and squirming mightily, squeezes Eskel’s shoulder as he passes and then loops a hand around Jaskier’s arm, towing him along gently. Eskel laughs at them as they go.

Ciri is asleep almost as soon as Geralt finishes tucking her in, and Geralt slings Jaskier over his shoulder and carries him down to Geralt’s rooms, Jaskier suppressing his yelps of indignation until they’re well out of Ciri’s earshot.

“You brute,” he cries, laughing, as Geralt finally dumps him on their bed. “What, have you carried me off to ravish me?”

“Hm,” Geralt says, grinning down at him, showing quite a lot of sharp white teeth. “Maybe I have, little lark.”

“Oh, help,” Jaskier says, chuckling, and throws his hands up over his head, crossing his wrists. “The White Wolf has captured me. What ever shall I do?”

Geralt pounces, landing on the bed over Jaskier on his hands and knees, one broad hand spanning both of Jaskier’s wrists to pin them down. Jaskier squeaks in surprise. “You’ve caught me,” he laughs. “Now what?”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and sits up on his knees to unbutton Jaskier’s doublet. Jaskier hastens to return the favor, and in short order they’re both shirtless, and Jaskier has managed to unlace Geralt’s pants, too, and wormed his hand in to wrap around Geralt’s lovely prick.

“Tsk,” Geralt says, and breaks the laces on Jaskier’s trousers with a single yank before gently pulling Jaskier’s hands back over his head. “Stay.”

“I don’t know where I ever gave you the impression I was an obedient sort of person,” Jaskier says, but he also doesn’t move his hands. Geralt shifts off the bed for a moment to tug Jaskier’s boots and pants off and kick out of his own, and then takes a moment to look Jaskier up and down, golden eyes blown dark with lust, sharp-toothed smile growing with every passing second. Jaskier shivers a little, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Every so often, he’s reminded that he is a fragile human, here in this wolf’s den, and there’s a certain undeniable thrill to being prey in the power of a predator who would never dream of doing him harm.

“Well, my wolf?” he breathes. “Going to devour me after all?”

“Yes,” Geralt rumbles, and to Jaskier’s surprise goes to his knees beside the bed, reaching up to wrap his hands around Jaskier’s hips and haul him to the edge of the bed, his legs over Geralt’s shoulders.

Jaskier yelps in shock and then _yells_ as Geralt swallows his prick to the root without any preamble whatsoever. “Fuck, you - your _mouth_ , Geralt, fucking _hells_ -” Jaskier babbles, and Geralt hums, which is a _very interesting sensation_ just now. Geralt is always good at this, his tongue far cleverer than his usual taciturn nature would suggest, but tonight he is fucking _ruthless_ , using every trick he knows to bring Jaskier to the brink of peaking in a very scant handful of minutes. “Going to - fuck, Geralt, going to -” Jaskier gasps, and Geralt _growls_ , and that’s it, Jaskier’s done. He peaks with a sharp, astonished scream, and sags back onto the sheets feeling slightly as though he’s been hit over the head with a blunt object made of pleasure.

Geralt stands up, keeping Jaskier’s legs over his shoulders, which means Jaskier ends up folded nearly in half. Geralt is _grinning_ , fierce and almost feral, as he reaches out for the jar of oil that they keep on the nightstand.

“Oh sweet gods,” Jaskier whimpers. Being fucked _now_ is going to be gloriously overwhelming. Geralt pauses, hand just touching the jar of oil, and quirks an eyebrow down at him, and Jaskier says desperately, “If you stop now I will _cry_ , you brute.”

Geralt chuckles and dips his fingers in the oil and slides his hand down between them, slick fingertips gliding over Jaskier’s spent prick and balls and lower, brushing teasingly against his entrance. Jaskier whimpers again, as pleadingly as he can. With his legs over Geralt’s shoulders and his arms over his head, there’s not much he can do to encourage his lover to get _on_ with it. Well, there’s _one_ thing -

“Please,” he begs. “Want you in me, my wolf - want to feel you so deep in me, filling me up so good.” He grins as Geralt’s eyes go even darker, and one blunt finger slides into him, slick and painless and _good_. “Want you to ravish me properly, wolf,” he continues. “Get that glorious prick in me and just _take_ me, the way we both know you want to - take what’s yours -” ooh, two fingers, and Geralt is growling softly deep in his chest, a warm low rumble that makes Jaskier shiver and his prick start to stir again despite it being _far_ too soon.

This is one of the side effects of having a Witcher for a lover that Jaskier is happiest about, actually, though not one he thinks Milena and Zofia have figured out yet, on account of the different anatomy: along with semi-permanent youth, good health, and faster healing, he’s gotten a much better recovery time. Nothing like Witcher stamina, but still a lot better than a normal human might expect.

“Come and claim me, my wolf,” Jaskier murmurs, smiling up into Geralt’s golden eyes. “Mark me as yours, make me smell like you, so everyone knows who I belong to.” That earns him a third finger and a growl that sounds like it comes from the depths of a mountain, rough-edged and _hungry_. Jaskier squirms a little, just to see what happens, and is delighted when Geralt licks his lips. “Fuck me, bite me, mark me,” Jaskier urges.

“Very mouthy prey,” Geralt observes, and Jaskier laughs breathlessly.

“If you wanted a quiet maiden, you grabbed the wrong person,” he gasps, and Geralt chuckles and pulls his fingers free and guides his prick just barely into Jaskier. Jaskier goes still, panting in anticipation, and Geralt leans over to pin his wrists to the bed with his cleaner hand. Jaskier is quite thoroughly caught, folded in half with his legs over Geralt’s shoulders and his hands trapped, and he whines and pushes up into it, reveling in the feeling of being held down.

“I think,” Geralt rumbles, “I have entirely the right person, little lark.” He smiles. “Going to sing for me?”

“Oh fuck yes,” Jaskier gasps, and Geralt thrusts into him, one long slow _deep_ slide that drives all the air from Jaskier’s lungs. Jaskier moans, and writhes as much as he can given how little he can move at _all_ , and Geralt sets a pace that’s only just short of too much, fast and hard and so _good_ Jaskier can hardly stand it.

Jaskier can’t really do anything but lie there and _take_ it, which is fucking glorious, and moan and gasp and yelp whenever Geralt gets the angle just right, and - as promised - attempt to sing. He has written half a hundred bawdy songs that he only ever sings at times like this, because Geralt and Eskel _both_ find it delightful when he tries to sing and ends up fucked too breathless to gasp out the words.

“ _The White Wolf he hath captured me / alas it is no trick / he keeps me in his bedroom / a-seated on his prick -_ ” Geralt _laughs_ , and Jaskier loses his place in the song and also most of his mind, bowled over as always by the sheer beauty of his lover’s joy.

And then he loses the rest of his composure as Geralt’s hand curls around his prick, and it’s far too soon and so fucking good and Geralt’s eyes are falling shut the way they do just before he peaks -

Geralt’s hips stutter, driving even deeper into Jaskier as he comes, and Jaskier follows him over with a breathless attempt at a wail.

*

Jaskier is nearly asleep, sprawled over Geralt’s chest with Geralt’s fingers combing gently through his hair, when the door finally opens and Eskel slips in. The other Witcher hums a greeting and strips without ceremony before sliding into bed beside them, going up on one elbow to press a kiss to Geralt’s lips and then leaning down to kiss Jaskier, too, when Jaskier raises his head with a soft hopeful sound.

“Don’t have to guess what you’ve been up to, do I,” Eskel murmurs, settling down with his head on Geralt’s shoulder and one hand resting on Jaskier’s back, warm and heavy and so broad it almost spans his back completely.

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. Jaskier chuckles, wrapping one arm around Eskel’s waist clumsily.

“White Wolf ravished me,” he says smugly. “Ver’ well. Mm. Yes.”

Eskel chuckles. “I’d say you fucked him speechless, Wolf, but he’s still talking.”

“Not possible,” Geralt says. “I’ve tried.”

Jaskier makes a rude noise against Geralt’s chest, and both Witchers chuckle softly. “You like it when I talk.”

“True enough, lark,” Eskel agrees. “Just now you should probably stop talking and sleep, though.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Jaskier mutters, but he also wriggles a bit until he’s very comfortable indeed, ear pressed to Geralt’s chest over his heart, hips slotted neatly between Geralt’s legs, one arm thrown over Eskel’s waist to keep him close. “Fine, fine, g’night, my loves.”

“Goodnight, little lark,” Geralt murmurs.

“Goodnight, catmint,” Eskel whispers, and leans forward; Jaskier feels a soft kiss against the crown of his head, and then hears Eskel and Geralt both breathe out quietly as their lips meet. His Wolves are here, and happy, and Jaskier falls asleep feeling like the wealthiest and most contented man in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning in case you want to wait a day: this chapter ends on a cliffhanger.

Jaskier steps out of the portal and throws his arms wide, caroling, “Hello, _Oxenfurt_!” to the ivy-covered buildings surrounding the courtyard Yen has chosen as their exit point. Aubry snorts a laugh.

“There’s no one around to hear you,” Lambert points out.

“My darling Lambert, the _spirit_ of the place, the _genius loci_ if you like, the essential _soul_ of Oxenfurt can hear me, and should know that its favorite son has returned!” Jaskier retorts, and Lambert guffaws. Milena covers her mouth and giggles. All around them, Witchers spread out, forming a perimeter through which no one, Jaskier is quite sure, will dare to try to pass.

Eskel takes up a position at Jaskier’s shoulder. “Where to first, then, o favorite son of Oxenfurt?”

“Chancellor Deckerman, who invited me,” Jaskier says. “And then we can wander about for the rest of the day - we can get Ciri her books, Milena - ooh, we can visit my favorite bookshop, too!”

“The bawdy one?” Lambert guesses.

“Naturally,” Jaskier says, beaming at him.

They attract...rather a lot of attention as they leave the courtyard: the sight of twenty Witchers with two humans kept safe in the center of their protective ring is _not_ a common one in Oxenfurt. Or anywhere on the continent, really. The students scatter in front of Ivar’s impressive scowl, staring and whispering to each other as the Witchers pass. Jaskier meets as many curious gazes as he can, smiling broadly, which elicits even more whispering.

“They’re all wondering if you’re _really_ Consort Jaskier,” Eskel murmurs. “Several of them seem to think you don’t look...bruised enough.”

“Well that’s rude,” Jaskier says, never letting his smile drop. “I am going to get people to realize that Geralt is not a vicious brute if it’s the last fucking thing I do.”

Eskel hums thoughtfully. “Anyone else, I might tell them it was hopeless, Witchers have always been feared and the Witcher Warlord is worst of all,” he says at last. “But I genuinely think you’ll find a way, somehow. Stubborn little thing.”

Jaskier can feel his ears going hot at the compliment. “Also I am going to sing _The Wolf with Amber Eyes_ tonight and you can’t stop me,” he says.

“O gods, must you?” Eskel asks faintly.

“I definitely must,” Jaskier says. “Wow, in my day the students at Oxenfurt were a _lot_ nosier. Nobody’s asked any of us a stupid question yet!”

“Your day was less than four years ago,” Milena points out. “I think they’re just all terrified.”

“Hmph,” Jaskier says, and then is absolutely delighted when someone hurries out onto the steps of the Bardic building and waves to him. “Pris! Oh, halt, let her through -”

The Witchers come to a swift halt, and Cedric and Axel step away from each other a little, leaving a narrow space where someone _could_ slip through, if they were feeling brave. Priscilla is, of course, utterly fearless: she darts into the circle of Witchers and flings her arms around Jaskier eagerly.

“Jas!” she cries. “You’re here! I didn’t think you’d really _come_! You have to give me the sheet music for _Ode to Witchers_ , I _know_ I’m getting something wrong on the third stanza and I can’t figure out what!”

...Jaskier has really missed being around bards. He understands their sense of priorities.

“I shall give you a copy tonight,” he promises, hugging her tightly. “We’re going to see the Chancellor and then wander about so I can show my Witchers all the best bookshops in Oxenfurt - would you care to come along?”

“I would _love_ to,” Priscilla says, and turns to hold out a hand to Milena. “Are you Lady Milena de Roggeven?”

“I am, and you have the better of me, my friend,” Milena says, looking rather startled as she clasps Priscilla’s hand.

“Priscilla, called Callonetta onstage,” Priscilla says. “And it’s a bard’s job to collect rumors; all the rumors _I’ve_ heard say that the only noblewoman in Kaer Morhen is Milena de Roggeven, who stayed behind when her sister was tossed out on her rear.”

Eskel snorts. Lambert grins like a wolf. Milena laughs. “Thank you for not claiming the White Wolf’s right hand forced me to stay,” she says. “Speaking of which, this is the White Wolf’s right hand, Eskel Amber-Eyed; and this is my consort Lambert of the Wolf School.”

“Oh, I have _got_ to hear this story,” Priscilla says, eyes wide, and offers her hand unhesitatingly to Eskel, who clasps it, and then to Lambert, who eyes Eskel sideways and gives an elaborate bow.

“I would be delighted to tell it,” Milena says, and Priscilla falls in beside her as the Witchers start moving again, now with _three_ humans tucked safely into the center of their protective circle.

*

Chancellor Deckerman is, as university chancellors must be, _very_ cognizant of power and who has it. This means that despite the fact that he _must_ remember having given Jaskier absolute hell at least three times over various entertaining infractions of the university’s rules - Jaskier’s proudest of the time he and some unnamed accomplices managed to reassemble an entire haycart on top of the Natural History building - he pretends very hard that he has nothing but the deepest respect for Jaskier, and is utterly delighted that Jaskier has condescended to perform at Oxenfurt.

It’s both flattering and rather enraging, actually, because Jaskier knows exactly how false every word of praise _is_. They would have invited him if he was the worst hack of a poet on the continent, just so they could say the Warlord’s own Consort had presented here.

But Jaskier _is_ here to perform, and he’s going to sing most of the _Wolf Rising_ cycle to what he is sure will be an absolutely enormous audience, and afterward he’ll talk to everyone with enough guts to approach him, and then he’s going to go home to his darling beloved Witchers and the stern comfort of Kaer Morhen and be smug about having been invited to present at Oxenfurt as a special guest before he’s even twenty-five.

He manages to say all the right things to the Chancellor - he _does_ know how to be polite to self-important, petty men, even if he doesn’t usually bother - and agrees to dine in the university’s great hall with as many professors as can cram into that cavernous space, and escapes the Chancellor’s office to find that Milena is regaling Priscilla with the litany of entertaining ways Yen tried to convince the would-be consorts to leave Kaer Morhen, with helpful interjections from Lambert and Cedric.

“ _Please_ tell me Jas hasn’t made a song out of this yet,” Priscilla is saying as Gweld shuts the door to the Chancellor’s office behind them. “Please, please, _please_ tell me that.”

“...As far as I know, he hasn’t,” Milena says, giving the other woman a curious look.

“Jas!” Priscilla cries, turning to him. “Can I? Please? I’ve been needing a new comic song, and this would be _amazing_.”

Jaskier grins. “Sure,” he says. “I wasn’t actually going to turn it into a song myself. Seemed a bit too much like gloating, somehow.”

“ _Wonderful_ ,” Priscilla enthuses. “Right, I need to take notes - what happened _after_ the hunt?” She pulls a little folding slate like Jaskier’s from a skirt pocket and gives Milena an expectant look.

“Huh,” Eskel murmurs. “So that’s a _bard_ thing, not a _lark_ thing.”

“The slate?” Jaskier asks.

“The slate, and the desperate need to make songs out of everything,” Eskel says.

“Why else do you think we _become_ bards?” Jaskier laughs.

“Hm,” says Eskel, helpfully, and Jaskier sighs and shakes his head and ushers his Witchers - and his human friends - down into the streets of Oxenfurt, to spend a few pleasant hours exploring.

*

They do, in fact, buy quite a lot of books; many are for Ciri, of course, but Jaskier sees half a dozen volumes of poetry he wants, and a beautiful atlas, and an illustrated version of the poetry book that apparently got Lambert and Milena to _finally_ kiss each other, which he buys before either of them can see it and entrusts to Eskel to hide, with plans to give it to Lambert to give to Milena.

And then they visit the _other_ bookstore, and Jaskier has the distinct pleasure of watching twenty Witchers and a well-bred noblewoman be _completely boggled_ by the amount of smut available for purchase. Kaja, the proprietress, remembers him fondly, which Jaskier had expected, and has no qualms about Witchers, which Jaskier _hadn’t_ expected.

“There’s been quite a little bump in sales of books _about_ Witchers, these last couple years,” she informs Jaskier with a wink. “Often about Witchers seducing naive bards, or dainty young noblewomen being swept off their feet and very happily ravished.”

“ _What_ ,” Eskel says.

“Ooh, which are the best ones?” Jaskier asks. “In your professional opinion.”

Kaja winks at him and plucks a couple of books off the shelf behind her. “I can hardly keep these in stock - _very_ good prose, actually, and less overblown than most.”

“Ooh, yes, I’ve read those, they’re delicious,” Priscilla says, peering at the covers.

“Lovely,” Jaskier says, and hands over a fistful of orens. Eskel makes a strangled noise of objection, and Jaskier backs up a step, holding the books out of the Witcher’s reach. “Aubry, would you hang onto these? I don’t want Eskel to get to them before me.”

Aubry plucks them neatly out of his hand and tucks them away. “Got ‘em safe.”

“You are a gem, you really are,” Jaskier assures the quiet Witcher.

“Why are there - _Jaskier_ ,” Eskel says desperately. “What the _fuck_.”

Jaskier kisses Eskel’s cheek. “Eskel, my heart, this means my songs are _working_. Witchers are going from being boogeymen to being thrillingly dangerous. _Thrillingly dangerous_ is good.”

“It is?” Lambert asks.

“Oh yes,” Jaskier assures him. “Thrillingly dangerous means people are less mindlessly terrified.”

“I see,” Eskel says.

“Go browse,” Jaskier says, grinning. “Find something fun. Or keep Cedric from bursting into flames, I think he found something really filthy - look at his _ears_.”

Cedric is, in fact, blushing crimson, and Axel is leaning over his shoulder with his eyebrows up near his hairline.

Eskel goes over to join them, looking slightly apprehensive, and Kaja leans over her counter to murmur, “That’s never the White Wolf.”

“His right hand,” Jaskier replies, just as quietly, knowing the Witchers can still hear anyway.

Kaja gives him a worried look. “Please tell me you’re not fool enough to cheat on the White Wolf with his second-in-command,” she hisses.

“I am many kinds of fool, but not that kind,” Jaskier assures her. “There are no secrets among us three.” He winks broadly. Kaja’s eyes go wide.

“If you write that, I want first dibs on selling it,” she says.

“Oddly enough, given my profession, this is a tale I do not plan to tell,” Jaskier says softly, watching Eskel scan the book Cedric is holding open and go slightly pink around the ears. “There are some things too precious to bare to the world.”

Kaja blinks at him. “Melitele be good, you’re actually in love,” she says at last. “I had money on you having just been absurdly clever, you know.”

“And what, seducing the White Wolf in cold-blooded political calculation?” Jaskier asks. Kaja nods. Jaskier snorts. “Wouldn’t have worked, actually. Witchers can smell emotions - if I wasn’t genuinely devoted to him, every Witcher in the keep would be able to tell.”

Kaja’s eyes go wide. “What...what _do_ you smell like, then?”

Lambert groans and puts a hand over his eyes. Most of the other Witchers snicker. Milena laughs. Priscilla exchanges a very confused glance with Kaja.

“Lust, apparently,” Jaskier says, without any shame at all. Living in Kaer Morhen has pretty much burned out any shame he had left, which wasn’t much.

“I see,” Kaja says, and Jaskier grins at her and declares his intention to buy any books any of his Witchers have taken a liking to, which distracts everyone quite effectively from any other trains of thought.

*

Dinner with the university’s professors - or at least in the same room with them - is almost as loud as a meal in Kaer Morhen, but much less pleasant, mostly because Jaskier is seated with the Chancellor and the heads of all the various faculties, and all of them seem to be torn between sycophantic groveling and pretending he was their very favorite student - even the ones who didn’t ever teach him - and emphasizing their continued loyalty to Redania, usually with sidelong looks and insinuations implying either that Jaskier himself is a traitor or that they’d be willing to be _just_ as loyal to the Warlord, should he conquer the rest of Redania, sometimes at the same time, which is impressive.

Milena, the lucky girl, got to go off with Priscilla (and Lambert and Cormac and Gweld) and have dinner with the _students_ , and Jaskier is deeply envious of her by about five minutes into the meal.

Thank all the gods, after the meal is - interminably - over, Jaskier can excuse himself from the company of the stuffy, pompous, hypocritical old men and lead his Witchers off to one of the nicest quadrangles in the university, a big grassy space between old stone buildings, with several wide-branching trees that leave dappled shadows on the lawns and paths beneath them. Jaskier lays claim to one of the best spots, shady and cool even in the late-summer heat, and his Witchers spread out around him, and Milena and Priscilla and their escort arrive a few minutes later. Jaskier sprawls out on the soft grass, head in Eskel’s lap; Lambert sits down with his back against a tree and Milena in his arms, so her pretty skirts don’t get mussed by the dirt. Priscilla plops down next to Jaskier, eyeing the Witchers with immense curiosity.

“So,” she says. “Tell me everything.”

“Darling Pris, you’ve heard my songs,” Jaskier says, closing his eyes in contentment as Eskel begins to run his fingers very gently through his hair.

“Yes, yes, and I’ve got the music for almost all of them, but I want to know what happened with _you_. I thought you were going to become a traveling bard - you promised we’d meet up on the circuit sometime,” Priscilla says softly. “And then we got word you’d been sent off to Kaer Morhen, and then - _nothing_ , Jas, we heard _nothing_ for a _year_. I thought you were _dead_!”

Jaskier sits up hastily and gathers her into an embrace. “Oh, Pris, I’m sorry. It was - it was terrifying at first, I shan’t lie, but once I got over the terror it was just so much to adjust to. I should have written sooner.”

“Yes, you should have, you absolute bastard,” Priscilla mutters, clinging to him tightly. “And now you can make it up to me by telling me _everything_ , because I _know_ you didn’t know anything more about Witchers than I did when you left Oxenfurt, and now here you are with an honor guard and a wolf’s head medallion around your throat.”

“It was...definitely a rather steep learning curve,” Jaskier allows, lying back down. Eskel snorts, but starts carding his fingers through Jaskier’s hair again, so that’s alright. “One of these days I’ll manage to write a proper song about the baths, for starters. Or the brawls. Or the sheer _majesty_ of Kaer Morhen - Pris, it’s like part of the mountain just decided to be a castle, it doesn’t look like mortal hands could have built such an edifice. Dark stone concealing golden hearts - and the trek up the mountains, it’s like climbing into the _sky_ , and you round that last corner and the keep is menace and sanctuary all together…”

“It sounds amazing,” Priscilla breathes. Bards have to have vivid imaginations, and from the stars in her eyes, she’s envisioning it right now.

“And then inside, it’s so stark, all bare stone walls and floors,” Jaskier continues. “Hardly any tapestries, no banners - you know, it’s just occurred to me, you know how so many lords like to hang the heads of their kills all over the walls? Deer and bear and so on?”

Priscilla nods. “With glass eyes, so they look fierce,” she agrees. “I sang at one house party last year where every bedroom had a different theme, and they put me in the rabbit room, and it was the creepiest night I’ve ever spent. So many tiny glass eyes staring at me.”

Jaskier grimaces. Several Witchers make noises of amused horror. Milena winces.

“Oh, I’ve been there,” she says. “At least - I dearly hope there aren’t _two_ such houses. Be glad you weren’t put into the fox room, my dear, they’ve all got their tongues lolling out and it’s just _horrifying_.”

“Ick,” Priscilla says, grinning at Milena. “Maybe I’m grateful for the rabbits, then.”

“In _any_ case, and thank all the gods I never visited whichever house that is, I’d have nightmares for months,” Jaskier says, “Witchers don’t do that with _their_ kills. I don’t think they take trophies. _Parts_ , yes, I have learned far more than I ever really wanted to about all the interesting alchemical uses for monster parts, but not trophies.”

“Hm,” Eskel says. “Trophies are for pride, right?”

“Usually, yes,” Jaskier says, smiling up at his lover.

“To...prove that you killed something you didn’t have to,” Eskel continues thoughtfully. “Yes?”

“‘I went out and found it and killed it, look how manly I am,’” Priscilla agrees, doing a remarkably good imitation of the sort of pompous asshat who would be proudest of a room full of rabbits’ heads. “Leaving aside the fact that half the time, it was the huntsmen who actually killed the thing.”

“Ugh,” Milena agrees. “ _More_ than half the time. ‘Oh, it took three hours to track the fox down’ - and you know it was the poor man down with the dogs doing the running, not the _lord_.”

Lambert is giving Milena a rather startled look. Several of the Witchers are, actually. Jaskier grins. “‘Ah, yes, a ten-point buck, magnificent, isn’t he? Slew it myself, of course,’ and then they leave out the bit where the poor deer was already down under a heap of dogs, and the huntsman told them where to strike.”

Milena giggles suddenly. “Do you remember, on that dreadful hunting trip - well, you weren’t there, but you saw it after - Geralt brought down that elk?”

Jaskier grins. “With his dagger, I think you said, Eskel?”

Eskel sighs. “With his dagger,” he agrees. “In any case - Witchers don’t hunt monsters for _pride_. It’s not something for - for entertainment. We do it because it’s what we’re _meant_ for.”

“So you don’t take trophies,” Jaskier says thoughtfully.

“Trophies are for bragging,” Lambert says. “Witchers _do_ brag, but it’s not the same.”

“Witchers,” Jaskier says slowly, thinking about every bragging contest he’s been witness to thus far, “brag about their scars.”

“Hm,” Eskel says. “That’s...remarkably accurate, actually.”

“Hardly a story worth telling if you don’t earn a scar,” Aubry puts in.

“The scars are the proof that the battle was truly terrible, then,” Priscilla says, and hums. “Oh, yes, that’s _very_ different from how nobles do it. Have you done a song yet, Jas? Describing your lord by his scars?”

“ _Ooh_ ,” Jaskier says. “Now see, this is why we need more bards at Kaer Morhen, I need people to give me _ideas_ like that. Darling Pris! Yes, that would be magnificent!”

Priscilla giggles. “Careful, I’ll start thinking you’re going to kidnap me and carry _me_ off to Kaer Morhen,” she teases.

“Eskel, my love, if I asked _very_ nicely would you kidnap me another bard?” Jaskier asks, fluttering his eyelashes up at Eskel adoringly. “Just a little one?”

“No,” Eskel says firmly.

Jaskier pouts dramatically. Eskel puts a hand over his face and sighs. “ _No_ ,” he repeats. “If you want to invite bards to Kaer Morhen, go ahead, long as they can swear not to harm anyone within the keep. But I will not be kidnapping any for you. And neither will anyone else,” he adds, raising his voice a little. Cedric and Axel make soft disappointed noises.

“Awww,” Jaskier says. “Oh _fine_ , spoilsport. Pris, if you’d _like_ to come and visit Kaer Morhen, just let me know - or just show up at the foot of the mountain, honestly. You’d be welcome.”

“Why thank you,” Priscilla says, chuckling. “I may just take you up on that. A loop through Kaedwen sounds like a good way to spend a year or two, and I could winter at the keep.”

Jaskier’s about to say something about that sounding like a delightful plan when someone cries, “ _Jaskier?_ Is that you?”

Jaskier sits up to see Shani sprinting across the grass. “Let her through!” he orders, jumping to his feet, and she barrels into his arms, not even seeming to notice the ring of Witchers.

“You _bastard_ , you vanish for two fucking years and then I don’t even get a _note_ to say you’re dropping by?” Shani hisses, hugging him tightly and then drawing back to scowl at him. “I ought to use you for _dissection_ practice, you asshole!”

“As long as it’s _your_ knife, I shall die happy,” Jaskier winks, and Shani sniffles and punches him gently in the shoulder.

“Ass,” she says. “You look well.”

“So do you!” Jaskier says, taking in her professor’s robes. “Still working for old Rusty?”

“He’s got me teaching all his first-year classes,” Shani confirms. Then, and only then, does she appear to notice the Witchers watching her warily, several of them with hands worryingly near their weapons’ hilts. “Uh. Tell your bodyguards I won’t _actually_ dissect you, Jaskier.”

“She won’t actually dissect me,” Jaskier says, laughing. “She’s a medical - professor, now, I guess. _Professor_ Shani, these are the Witchers of Kaer Morhen - well, some of them, anyhow - and Lady Milena de Roggeven, and you know Pris.”

“I do,” Shani agrees, and sinks down onto the grass beside Priscilla. “Did _you_ know he was coming by?” Jaskier sits down and leans against Eskel’s shoulder.

“Found out yesterday, sorry,” Priscilla says sheepishly. “I had a late lecture, and you have that early seminar…”

“Forgiven, I guess,” Shani sighs. “Huh, you really do have eyes like cats,” she adds, peering at Eskel, who gives her a rather startled look in return. “Do they reflect light at night?”

“They do,” Jaskier confirms. “It’s moderately startling the first couple of times.”

“Tapetum lucidum,” Shani says thoughtfully. “I’d give my right hand to know how the hell your mutagens cause _that_ to form. Humans don’t have it.”

“Um,” says Eskel, giving Jaskier a slightly dubious look. Jaskier pats his knee.

“She’s harmless - well, she won’t do any of us any harm,” he assures Eskel. “All the medical students are like that.” To Shani he adds, “I’m afraid I’ve no idea and couldn’t tell you if I did.”

“Oh, naturally,” Shani says, sighing. “Still! Fascinating! Do they do the thing, you know, when cats are about to pounce on something…?”

Jaskier, who has _definitely_ seen both of his lovers’ slit-pupiled eyes go suddenly black with the urge to pounce on him, grins. “Maybe,” he says. “Let Eskel’s admittedly lovely eyes alone and tell me what you’ve been up to while I’ve been off in the hinterlands of Kaedwen, Shani darling.”

Shani beams, and Jaskier settles in for a proper afternoon of gossip. He _has_ missed this, really he has.

*

The largest amphitheatre in Oxenfurt has been reserved for his performance, and if Jaskier was prone to stage fright, he might actually feel some, when he sees the size of the crowd which has gathered to hear him sing. His _Witchers_ certainly look taken aback and rather unhappy about it: too many people, too many scents, too much emotion to parse. Jaskier spends several minutes soothing them before he gets up onto the stage and bows to the audience.

Jaskier starts his set with the _Ode to Witchers_ , naturally, and is quite gratified when almost a third of the audience joins in the chorus. He sings the _Siege of Ard Carraigh_ and _The Wolf in Caingorn_ , because it seems diplomatic not to choose any of the songs about the White Wolf conquering _Redania_ while he’s _in_ Redania. And then he picks the _Lobster Song_ because it’s lighthearted and _The Wolf and the Swan_ to tease Lambert and Milena, and then, to end the set, _Sunlit Lover_ , because maybe only he and Eskel and Geralt know that it’s _for_ Eskel, but that’s enough, and he’s not feeling quite mischievous enough to actually sing _The Wolf with Amber Eyes_ when Eskel would have to sit right there and listen and try not to die of embarrassment.

It’s a _big_ audience - far bigger than the crowd of Witchers and warriors and servants in Kaer Morhen - and they’re enthusiastic, cheering at the end of every song and singing along with the choruses of the simpler ones. The Witchers have cordoned off an area near the front, with Milena and Priscilla carefully tucked into the center of their circle, and only Eskel is actually _on_ the stage with Jaskier; he’s doing his best to look unobtrusive, which Witchers aren’t good at, but he’s doing well enough that all eyes are on Jaskier where they belong.

Just behind the Witchers is a little group of priests and priestesses; Jaskier assumes they were given invitations by the university, to lend a certain air of gravitas and respectability to what would otherwise be a slightly rowdy night of singing, and he and Milena both made a point of greeting them politely before Jaskier ascended the stage. They seem to be having a good time, at least, from what little Jaskier can see of them - at least half of them are in hooded robes so he can't see their faces, but they’re swaying and clapping along like everyone else. The university faculty are crammed in around them, not quite daring to intrude on the Witchers’ personal space, and then behind _them_ are the students and the common folk of Oxenfurt, easily a thousand people or more. Thank the brilliant architects of ages past for the acoustics of this amphitheatre.

Jaskier is halfway through _Sunlit Lover_ when Milena suddenly sways on her feet and falls. Lambert, beside her, yells and goes to his knees, and Jaskier stops singing with a discordant twang of his lute and rushes to the edge of the stage, peering down anxiously. There’s a murmur of confusion from the vast crowd.

“We are acolytes of Melitele - let us through to tend the lady!” one of the robed priestesses says, and the Witchers draw aside. Two robed priestesses go to their knees beside Milena, shooing the Witchers back. Lambert draws away only reluctantly, one step, two steps, three -

A portal opens, and the priestesses seize Milena in their arms and leap through it before anyone can so much as draw breath to scream.

Lambert bellows inarticulate rage and horror, lunging forward into empty air. Jaskier yelps - what, he’s not sure - and then the air opens behind _him_ and arms reach out to seize him. Eskel snarls and reaches out to catch Jaskier before he can be hauled through the portal, and a robed figure leans around Jaskier’s flailing form and drives a long knife, edge dripping with something dark and foul, deep into Eskel’s stomach through a gap in his gambeson.

But Eskel is a Witcher; he lunges forward through the portal after Jaskier, snarling like a wolf.

A spell hits them both, like a club to the back of the head, and the last thing Jaskier sees before his world goes black is Eskel, falling.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier wakes slowly, with a feeling like his head has been stuffed with some sort of gauze. It’s bright daylight - shit, has he been out all _night_? He’s lying on his back on some sort of thin pallet; he’s still dressed, and there’s a heavy weight around one ankle. He’s _not_ got his holdout dagger, nor the necklace which ought to alert Yen to his location. Someone is talking, someone he doesn’t recognize - a female voice, not Pris or Shani - and he lies still and listens hard. It takes several moments before the words become truly understandable, the gauze-feeling slowly growing thinner.

“...really, Milly, you ought to be thanking me. The dishonor you’ve brought to our family - I’m only giving you a chance to make up for that, dear. Our parents can barely show their faces at court, you know, and what sort of match darling Marika is going to be able to make, I dread to think of.”

“ _Thank_ you?” Milena’s clear tones reply, cold and _furious_ as Jaskier has never heard her before. “For taking me from my consort’s side - for harming my liege lord! Maybe _you_ think I’ve dishonored the family, Marta, but from where I’m sitting it’s _your_ honor that’s been stained.”

“ _Consort_ ,” the other female voice sneers. Jaskier cudgels his gauzy brain into thinking: Marta. Marta de Roggeven, apparently still a bit bitter about having been cast out of Kaer Morhen so abruptly - having never even had a real chance of winning Geralt’s hand. “Is _that_ what you’re calling it? Trying to hide your whoring under pretty words? Panting after those animals like a bitch in heat. How many of them have you let under your skirts?”

“Precisely one,” Milena bites out. “And Lambert is a good man - far more honorable than _any_ of those who tried to court me in Tretogor. You’re just bitter that I’ve won a Witcher’s heart, when none of them would even look twice at _you_.”

“Little _bitch_ ,” Marta snarls. “He won’t come and save you, you know - your precious _Lambert_. Those fancy necklaces won’t work. You’re stuck here until _we_ decide otherwise, and _you’re_ not going anywhere but a nunnery. I hope you liked whoring for your Witcher, because you’ll never have another man under your skirts again.”

“He’ll find me,” Milena says coolly. “He and every other Witcher in Kaer Morhen, if they have to search Redania stone by stone. You’ve kidnapped the _Consort_ , you fool, and harmed the Wolf’s right hand. Do you think the Warlord will take that lying down?”

_Harmed the Wolf’s right hand. **Eskel**_. Jaskier opens his eyes slowly, to see a wooden ceiling, a stone wall. He rolls his head slowly to the side, not wanting to let on that he’s awake quite yet.

Milena is sitting on another thin pallet across the room, glaring up at her sister; she looks unharmed, but there’s a manacle around one of her ankles. Marta is flanked by two other women. One has the faintly unnatural beauty of a sorceress. It’s something about the perfect symmetry, Jaskier thinks: all humans are very slightly asymmetrical, but sorceresses aren’t. This one is black-haired and black-eyed and elegant, and her dress is cut _very_ low to emphasize the swell of her magnificent breasts, and slit up the side to display her lovely legs. In other circumstances, Jaskier might have given her more than one admiring glance; as it is, he marks her down as probably the most dangerous of their opponents.

The other - the other is Agata of Temeria. What the _fuck_. Isn’t she supposed to be safely tucked away as an acolyte of -

Of Melitele. And it was a pair of Melitelan priestesses who snatched Milena, he can remember that much. Maybe Geralt _should_ have just slit her throat and have done - at the time, all of them thought it wiser not to actually kill a princess, but apparently in hindsight that might have been smarter.

And against the far wall, _Eskel_ , stripped of his armor and his swords, chained hand and foot, lying on the stone floor, with a gash in his stomach that’s still bleeding sluggishly. He looks like he’s still unconscious, but Jaskier can see - if only barely - the slow rise and fall of his chest. Not dead. Thank the _gods_. Jaskier swallows bile. Gods above, that’s an injury that would kill any normal man...and he _smelled_ whatever foulness that blade was dipped in. Gods, _gods_ , he is going to die of guilt if Eskel isn’t alright. This whole stupid trip was for _his_ ego - his chance to rub his success in the face of the professors of Oxenfurt and the nobles of Redania - if Eskel dies because Jaskier wanted to _show off_ he’ll - he’ll -

Fuck, he doesn’t even know what he’ll do. Losing Eskel would _break_ Geralt. Would break _Ciri_. And thank every god Ciri didn’t come on this expedition - _that_ would be a disaster beyond imagining. This is entirely bad enough. They _can’t_ lose Eskel, not their bedrock, not their steady, sturdy, _constant_ Eskel.

But he isn’t dead yet.

“He’ll _have_ to take it,” Agata says, in a voice so full of hatred that Jaskier feels physically ill. “If he wants either his precious Consort _or_ his right hand back in one piece. Oh, that’d be a funny joke, wouldn’t it, if we sent him his right hand’s right hand?”

Jaskier was already going to kill her as soon as the opportunity presented itself, but that decision has gained an abrupt and startling _urgency_. He’s willing to lay money she’s the one who stabbed Eskel; if she dares touch him _again_ -

His own stabbing he could let slide, mostly because it gave Geralt an excuse to kick out all the husband-hunters and intimidate Henselt of Temeria into signing a treaty, but stabbing _Eskel_ is a bridge too far. The bridge too far is _several bridges back_ and also on _fire_.

“ _Agata_ ,” Marta says warningly. “We don’t harm them unless we have to, remember? We need them hale in order to preserve our bargaining position.”

Agata spits at her feet. “We’ll try it your way,” she allows. “And then when it doesn’t work, we’ll try _mine_.” She stomps out of the room; as she opens the door, Jaskier sees a guard in de Roggeven livery standing outside. That will be a little awkward to deal with, assuming they can _get_ that far. The manacles are...a bit of a problem.

“Marta,” Milena says softly, “you have to know this won’t work. Even if everything goes as you think it will - even if the White Wolf promises to give the rest of Redania back to King Vizimir - if Jaskier or Eskel dies, the White Wolf _will_ sack Tretogor, and if he knows you’re involved, every de Roggeven will be put to the sword. Our parents, Marika, _everyone_. And if they _don’t_ die, and you give them back - then what’s to stop the White Wolf from taking Redania back, the whole country this time? All you’ve done is make it _far_ more likely that the White Wolf will conquer the rest of Redania, and soon. Have your sorceress heal Eskel, and let us go, and I’ll beg the Wolf for mercy. I might be able to convince him to spare our family’s lives - Marika’s, at least, if she had nothing to do with this.”

Jaskier sits up carefully as she’s speaking, not letting the chain of his manacle clink, and rises as quietly as he can, until he’s standing behind Marta and the sorceress, arms crossed over his chest. He’s a decently tall man, though he usually looks smaller next to his beloved Wolves, and neither Marta nor the sorceress is a tall woman. Jaskier doesn’t _usually_ try to loom, but in this case…

“Before you beg the Wolf for mercy,” he says, as coldly as he can, “you might try begging _me_.”

Marta and the sorceress both whirl to stare at him in shock. The sorceress recovers first. “So you’re awake at last, little songbird.”

“ _You_ don’t get to call me that,” Jaskier informs her. “I am Jaskier of Kaer Morhen, Consort to the Warlord of the North.”

“I will call you anything I care to, songbird,” the sorceress says. “I could turn you _into_ a songbird. You’d be more amusing that way, I’m sure.”

Jaskier bares his teeth in something that might, perhaps, be mistaken for a smile. “I’d peck your eyes out,” he replies. “Might I know who I have the honor of addressing? So I can put it on the gravestone, you understand.”

The sorceress chuckles. “Sabrina Glevissig, very much not at your service, songbird,” she replies.

Ah. The court sorceress of Temeria. This _is_ becoming interesting. “And does King Henselt know you’ve broken the treaty on his behalf?” Jaskier asks, poisonously polite.

“Ah, but see, I’m not doing it for _Temeria_ , songbird,” Sabrina says, grinning. “I’m in Redania, after all, and have been _graciously_ assisting the much wronged Marchioness de Roggeven, who wishes to serve her kingdom so ardently.”

“Yes, I’m sure the White Wolf will appreciate that distinction,” Jaskier drawls. “Especially as you _also_ appear to be assisting the woman who nearly killed me the last time we met. Who is supposed to be an acolyte of Melitele. I do believe she’s broken at least two of the vows she swore when my beloved lord allowed her to escape with her miserable life: silence, and nonviolence. He doesn’t like oathbreakers, you know. Neither, as I understand it, do the gods.”

Sabrina inspects her nails. “Vows sworn under duress don’t bind, I’m sure you know that,” she says. “If my rightful princess asked me to assist her good friend Marta, who was I to refuse?”

“Huh,” Jaskier says. “Rightful princess. _I_ wouldn’t want her anywhere in the line of succession. Temper like that isn’t a good trait in a ruler.” He cocks his head and considers Sabrina. Beneath the undeniable beauty, there’s something a little...strained, perhaps? “Holding a concealment spell over this house getting a little difficult?” he asks. “Yen _did_ say those necklaces would activate immediately if anyone ever took them _away_ from us.”

“ _Darling_ Yennefer has never been as strong as I am,” Sabrina grits out.

“Perhaps,” Jaskier allows. “I’ve never pretended to know which mage is stronger than another. But Yen isn’t alone, and you are. Can you hold out against Yen _and_ Triss? What happens if they call in the rest of the Wolf’s mages? Seraphina would help. Istredd. Lytta. If she has to, Yen will call in every mage who has sworn their service to the Wolf.”

Sabrina snarls. “I’ll hold long enough. Do you really think this ends with you getting back to your precious wolf-lord, safe and sound?”

“Maybe not,” Jaskier allows. “Maybe we die here. But if we do -” he steps forward, to the limit of the chain around his ankle, and meets her eyes squarely. “If we die, Sabrina Glevissig, you had better start running. I am the White Wolf’s consort and beloved, and that man there is his right hand and dearest friend, and if we die, the ends of the earth will not be far enough for you to find safety. He will hunt you _down_ , sorceress, and you will die _screaming_.” His voice has dropped to a low whisper, full of menace.

Sabrina steps back before she can catch herself. “Big words, songbird,” she says, voice a little shaky. “From a catamite chained to a wall. Anyone would think you actually believed those animals have _hearts_.”

“If you dare call them _animals_ again I shall tear the lying tongue out of your mouth before you die,” Jaskier snarls, incandescent with rage. Sabrina takes another step back, looking genuinely startled. “Get out, _witch_. And you, you treasonous little ninny. Go tell the Wolf you’ve taken his pack from him, and see how he responds.”

They don’t _flee_ , exactly, but Marta de Roggeven definitely looks like she would prefer to be anywhere but here, and Sabrina Glevissig is only a little slower than her companion. The door closes behind them with a _thud_ but, interestingly, no _click_ of a lock, and Jaskier can hear _three_ sets of footsteps moving away, one of them a man’s heavy boots.

Jaskier crosses the room in four swift strides - and comes up short, the chain on his ankle taut and straining, _just_ too far away to touch Eskel. He falls to his knees, reaching out -

And Eskel reaches back, hand clasping Jaskier’s gently.

“Oh _fuck_ , you’re awake,” Jaskier whispers. Eskel opens amber eyes and smiles faintly at him.

“Catmint,” he breathes. “Fierce little thing, aren’t you.” He blinks and frowns. “Someone’s coming.” He closes his eyes again, feigning unconsciousness.

Jaskier turns to the door in time to see it swing open just a crack and a small boy, no older than Ciri, tiptoe in with a tray of food. Milena makes a little sound of astonishment.

“Aleksander! What are you doing here?”

“Milady said to bring you breakfast, milady Milena,” the boy says shyly. Milena rises and goes to the end of _her_ chain, and the boy hands her the tray. “She said not to talk to you, milady Milena, sorry!”

“You don’t have to talk to us,” Jaskier says hastily, “but I beg you, bring me clean water and some bandages - rags - anything. Our companion is wounded.”

The boy peers at Eskel, and winces at the sight of the bloody gash. “Is that a _Witcher_ , milord?”

“Eskel Amber-Eyed, the White Wolf’s right hand,” Jaskier says. “Please, water and bandages?”

The boy hesitates, then nods. “Alright,” he says, and scampers out. Milena brings the tray over to where Jaskier is still kneeling with Eskel’s hand in his.

“Triss has told me that if something does not kill a Witcher outright, he will heal,” she murmurs, patting Jaskier on the shoulder.

“Triss’s right,” Eskel grunts.

“Good,” Jaskier says, rubbing the burgeoning tears from his eyes. “You’re not allowed to die.” Not Eskel - not beloved, priceless Eskel.

“Shan’t,” Eskel promises.

“You know the lad?” Jaskier asks Milena, to distract himself from the lines of pain around Eskel’s eyes.

“One of my family’s pages,” Milena says. “He’s served my father for three years now - his father wanted to curry favor. If Father assigned him to Marta, he’ll do whatever she ordered; he knows what his duty is. And unfortunately she outranks me, technically.”

Jaskier sighs. “What the _fuck_ is she thinking?”

“She _claims_ she wants to rescue the family from the dishonor of my taking up with a Witcher. I think she’s just jealous. Unless she somehow bags herself a _prince_ , she’ll never have a better position than I do as Ciri’s lady-in-waiting; and Lambert may not technically have a title, but he’s one of the Wolves, and one of the ones favored by the Warlord, no less. If the Witchers _did_ have titles, he’d probably be of an appropriate rank for me. A marquess, or something like.”

“Have you _told_ him he’s roughly the same rank as a marquess?”

“I have not. He’d pull a Geralt and go up the mountain for a week.” Milena grins.

Jaskier doubles over with laughter. “Oh dear, he _would_ ,” he says.

Eskel chuckles, a rough pained noise. “Marquess Lambert,” he rasps. “I might pay to see that.”

“If he’s a marquess, you’re a duke,” Milena points out, and Eskel winces.

“ _Fuck_ no,” he says. “And don’t you dare suggest it to the Wolf, either.”

“I promise,” Jaskier says, squeezing Eskel’s hand.

“Not a word,” Milena pledges.

The boy comes back a few minutes later, with a pitcher of water and a handful of clean rags. Milena rises and takes them from him gently. “Thank you, Aleksander.”

“Welcome, milady,” the boy chirps, and leaves again at a trot.

“Can you shift a little closer?” Jaskier asks Eskel. “I don’t want you to aggravate that -”

Eskel grunts and nods and shuffles himself gracelessly across the floor until he’s within Jaskier’s reach. Milena kneels down beside them, white-faced but with a determined set to her jaw, and between the two of them they manage to get Eskel’s shirt peeled away from the wound. The blood still oozing from it is _not_ the right color: it’s too dark, tainted somehow.

“Poison,” Jaskier says through his teeth. “I’ll see her dead, that oathbreaking _worm_.”

“Poison,” Eskel agrees. “Sluice it out, lark.”

“This is going to hurt like hell,” Jaskier informs him, and Eskel nods. Milena takes the pitcher, and Jaskier a handful of rags, and between the two of them they manage to at least clean most of the gore from Eskel’s skin and sluice _most_ of the horrid tainted blood out of the wound. Eskel lies still under their careful ministrations, hands fisted, teeth gritted, and makes no sound at all. It’s almost worse than if he screamed.

They use the last of the rags and Jaskier’s undershirt to make a sort of clumsy bandage, and then Jaskier scrubs his hands as clean as they’ll get and feeds Eskel every bit of the meat on the tray - venison, and a little overcooked - leaving the bread and butter for himself and Milena.

“Going to meditate a little,” Eskel says once the food is gone.

Jaskier nods and bends to brush a kiss against Eskel’s lips. “Heal, my heart,” he whispers, and takes one of Eskel’s hands in his as those lovely amber eyes slip closed and Eskel’s breathing goes deep and even.

Jaskier watches him for a long moment, then shakes himself a little and turns to Milena. “I’m sorry; I didn’t even think to ask if you’d been hurt.”

“Not at all,” Milena says, smiling a little ruefully. “A little woozy when I woke up, but -” She pauses, and glances at the door, and puts her hands over her face, and bursts into sobbing.

Jaskier reaches out to gather her into his free arm, cradling her against his shoulder. “Shh, shh, we’re going to be fine,” he murmurs, and she peeks out from behind her hands and _winks_ at him. Her cheeks are perfectly dry.

She pretends to sob on his shoulder for several minutes, as Jaskier continues to make soothing noises and wonders what she’s up to, and finally she subsides into soft sniffling, and leans a little closer, and breathes in his ear, “They didn’t bother to search _me_.”

Jaskier blinks at her. “Oh?”

Milena reaches up to touch one of the pins holding her elaborate hairdo together. “Remember what the little menace was learning last month?” she whispers.

What the little menace was learning last month? Apart from her normal lessons with Jaskier and Milena and Yen and Triss and the Witchers, she was -

Oh right. She managed to talk Cedric into - into teaching her to pick locks. And Milena had -

Jaskier starts to smile. And Milena had tagged along, because, she’d said, if she was the princess’s lady-in-waiting, she should have as many useful skills as possible.

“Lambert got you special hairpins, didn’t he,” Jaskier murmurs.

Milena nods. “They didn’t take them,” she replies, just as softly. “ _Nor_ my holdout daggers.”

“Of course you have holdout daggers,” Jaskier sighs, grinning. “Bless Lambert and all his works.” He settles a little more comfortably next to Eskel, stretching his legs out so the manacle doesn’t pull as much, curling his free hand around Milena’s waist to hold her close for both their comforts. “So. When do we want to do this?”

Milena frowns. “I _would_ say wait until dark,” she says slowly, “but...I don’t know how long Marta can keep that _horrid_ woman under control. And Eskel needs tending, even if he _does_ have Witcher healing.”

Jaskier nods. “We should wait until Eskel wakes,” he decides at last. “Midafternoon, perhaps - I know _I’m_ always sleepy after a good luncheon, and we can hope our captors will be, too.” He glances down at Eskel. “And we’re going to have to figure out how to convince him to let us handle everything.”

“Easier said than done,” Milena says. Jaskier nods. If Eskel _can_ stand - and Jaskier suspects he’ll be able to, once he’s meditated for a while - he’ll insist on going first, on protecting Jaskier and Milena, even if he’s still bleeding from a fucking _gut wound_.

There are footsteps in the hall outside the door, and Jaskier squeezes Eskel’s hand again and stands, putting himself between his companions and the intruder. The door swings open to reveal the person Jaskier _least_ wants to deal with right now, when he’s feeling fragile and slightly feral and yet _can’t_ attack anyone, can’t take revenge for his lover’s injury.

“Highness,” he drawls as Agata steps into the room. “Oh wait! You were disowned, weren’t you. Acolyte? Oathbreaker?”

“Whoreson catamite,” Agata snarls.

“Really, what is _with_ everyone calling me that?” Jaskier asks the ceiling. “Consort. Con. Sort. It’s not a difficult word. Also, my mother is the Countess de Lettenhove and as far as I know she’s never sold her virtue, aside from marrying my father.”

Agata spits at his feet. “Craven little popinjay,” she sneers. “See if you crow so pretty when your vile _cur_ of a lord tosses you aside. I’ll send him your heart in a box - or maybe your _prick_.”

“Charming,” Jaskier drawls, as annoyingly as he can. “Very brave of you, taunting a chained man - oh wait, you also stabbed me in the _back_ , didn’t you? The vaunted courage of Temeria is definitely strong in its former princess, I see.” He spreads his arms wide. “Go on, then, take a shot - if you dare get within arm’s reach of me while I’m actually _awake_ , that is. Coward.”

Agata hisses like an angry cat. Jaskier grins at her, fierce and mirthless. Oh, he _wants_ her to step forward. Unarmed as he is, he’s not actually sure he could kill her - but he could sure as hell _try_. She hurt _Eskel_. That’s not something Jaskier is ever going to be able to forgive.

“You’re going to die screaming for mercy,” Agata informs him after a long, tense moment. “And I’m going to make it _last_.”

“Have you just dropped by to make pointless threats?” Jaskier inquires, poisonously light and careless. “You’ve tried to kill me once already, and failed. I don’t think much of your chances a second time. Not when you’re clearly answering to Marta de Roggeven, and _she_ doesn’t want me dead, now does she? Hostages are so much less useful dead, you see. She may be a traitorous little insect, but she’s at _least_ twice as smart as you are.”

He’s expecting the slap, and catches Agata’s wrist before it can connect. And she’s strong for a woman, he’ll give her that, but he’s a _lutist_. He has finger strength that impresses _Witchers_. He tightens his grip enough that he knows it will leave bruises, and grins down at her. “See, Marta wouldn’t have let herself be _goaded_ ,” he whispers -

And the door bangs open, and Marta de Roggeven comes in followed by two armed men in de Roggeven livery. Jaskier sighs and lets go of Agata’s wrist and backs up as two swords clear their sheaths. “You couldn’t have waited another minute?” he asks lightly.

“Agata, I _told_ you to leave him be for now,” Marta hisses, putting a hand on Agata’s arm. Agata throws her off with a snarl and whirls, stalking out the door furiously. Marta glares at Jaskier for a moment before leaving the room, her guards shooting Milena apologetic looks before they follow.

Jaskier sighs and sits down again, glancing over at Eskel and feeling _very_ relieved when the Witcher doesn’t twitch. Eskel would probably disapprove of Jaskier goading the crazed princess into attacking him.

“Why were you _taunting_ her?” Milena hisses. Jaskier glances at her - she looks genuinely worried, shit.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I figured I might be able to throw a bit of dissention among the ranks of our enemies, actually. If Agata resents Marta, and Sabrina is wearing herself out keeping those necklaces from signalling to Yen...and maybe starts worrying about Agata being _completely unhinged_...we might be able to escape more easily in the confusion.” He sighs. “Also I want to kill her.”

“For Eskel,” Milena says, nodding, and curls close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “If she’d hurt Lambert like that - I understand, really I do. But please don’t get yourself killed, Jaskier. We _can_ get out of this.”

“I’ll be good,” Jaskier promises. But silently he makes another oath: _If I get a chance, Agata dies. No one stabs my Eskel and lives to brag of it._


	4. Chapter 4

The room has only one window, high on the wall; Jaskier watches the shadows change as the sun meanders across the sky, and passes the time by singing, because what _else_ is he going to do? He sings the whole damn _Wolf Rising_ cycle, Milena joining in on the choruses, in the theory that it can’t hurt to remind their captors _exactly_ who they were stupid enough to kidnap. Aleksander appears again around noon, with another tray of bread and butter and venison, the meat already cut up small. Jaskier and Milena each eat a little, leaving the lion’s share - or perhaps the wolf’s share - for Eskel when he awakens from his meditation.

Eskel finally wakes about an hour after noon, if Jaskier is judging the time right, and looks _far_ better than he did when he slipped into meditation: his eyes are bright, the lines of pain around them gone, and his wound has stopped oozing. He sits up, a little gingerly, and devours the remains of lunch in about three bites.

“So,” Jaskier says, once Eskel has finished eating, “we have something vaguely like a plan.”

“Oh?” Eskel asks.

Milena smiles at him, and reaches up to draw a couple of the pins from her hair. The tops of the pins - the bits that show - are delicate silver, sinuous curved shapes with little knobs on the end to make them easier to grip - quite lovely, actually - but after about an inch, the silver turns to steel, a slender blunt blade with a slight curve. Eskel blinks at them for a moment, and then the corner of his mouth ticks up.

“Lambert getting creative with the courting gifts, I see,” he observes.

“Yes,” Milena says. “Jaskier, give me your ankle.”

Jaskier props his foot up on his knee for easier access and watches as she bends over with a frown of concentration and slides the picks into the lock on the manacle. She works quietly for several minutes, fingers moving in tiny careful increments, and Jaskier does his best to hold perfectly still.

And then there’s a quiet _click_ , and the manacle falls open. Jaskier catches it and lays it down on the floor as softly as he can. Milena grins, bright and fierce.

“Now yours,” Jaskier breathes, and Milena brings her own leg up and fiddles very carefully with its manacle, bent over a little awkwardly to get the right angle. It takes her a little longer than it did to get his, but at last there’s that quiet _click_ again, and Jaskier lifts the manacle away before it can fall.

“Perfect,” he praises her. “I’m telling Cedric you’re the finest student he’s ever had.”

Eskel is grinning as he holds out his hands, and Milena makes even quicker work of _his_ manacles than she did of her own and Jaskier’s. Less than a quarter of an hour later, they’re all unchained, and Eskel stands, stretching slowly and carefully as if to discern how much his range of motion is currently limited by his injury. Jaskier also stands, and offers Milena a hand up, which she takes, rising gracefully to her feet and tucking the lockpick-pins back into her hairdo. And then she slips her hands through a pair of slits in her skirt Jaskier would never have dreamed were there, and draws them out again with a dagger in each. They’re delicate, beautiful things, with sapphires in their hilts, but the blades are water steel, and wickedly sharp.

“One for you and one for Eskel,” Jaskier decides. He has no illusions about who the least dangerous person in this room is. Sure, he’s been training with the Witchers since his unfortunate encounter with Agata’s dagger, but Milena is good enough already that Lambert brags about her every chance he gets, and Eskel, of course, is terrifyingly competent with any weapon you care to name. The dagger is rather small for Eskel’s hand, naturally: it’s made to Milena’s measurements, and she’s a delicate little thing.

_Was_ a delicate little thing, when she came to Kaer Morhen. She’s still small and slender and elegant, but there’s something about her poise, now, that isn’t a noblewoman’s careful daintiness; it’s much more the quiet leashed danger of a predator. A great cat of some sort, perhaps, so beautiful it’s hard to remember that its claws are sharp.

_The cat of Kaer Morhen is deadly in her grace / she moves like silk and starlight, she dances like a dream / she is cloaked in priceless satin, she is draped in snow-white lace / you’d never know she had such claws until you see them gleam…_

The door isn’t locked. Eskel presses an ear against it and listens for a moment. “One man,” he murmurs, gesturing to the right. “Ten paces away, perhaps.”

Jaskier nods and eases the door open a breath at a time, blessing every god that it opens inward. He crouches down once it’s open far enough, and peers out, hoping that his head will be low enough that anyone glancing casually down the hall won’t spot him.

There _is_ a guard, in de Roggeven livery, but he’s looking the other way, gnawing on a chunk of tough bread. He looks bored. Well, why shouldn’t he be bored? Presumably, everyone in the house knows that Sabrina is keeping Yen from finding them, and that the important prisoners are chained up and can’t possibly go anywhere.

He sits back on his heels and murmurs, “Looking away; distracted.”

“Good,” Eskel says, a bare breath of sound, and moves _far_ faster than an injured man should be able to. Jaskier pokes his head back out the doorway in time to see Eskel’s fist connect neatly with the guard’s temple, the dagger’s pommel weighting the blow. The man crumples silently to the floor.

Eskel sags against the wall, one hand pressed to his stomach. Jaskier is at his side before he even realizes he’s stood up. “Fuck it, Eskel,” he hisses, getting a shoulder under Eskel’s arm and bracing him. Milena moves in front of them, dagger held ready, watching the doorway ahead of them for enemies. “If you rip that wound open again I will tell Triss to dose you fucking _unconscious_ , see if I don’t.”

Eskel makes a noise halfway between a chuckle and a groan of pain. “Vicious little lark,” he says, soft and fond.

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees. Together, they all peer out through the arched doorway.

There’s a large open room in front of them, with doors on the other three sides. One looks like it leads _out_ ; a second might lead to another wing like the one they’ve just escaped; a third, beside a large fireplace, is slightly ajar. From behind that door, Jaskier can hear - not _shouting_ , not quite, but loud and unhappy conversation: Marta, Agata, and Sabrina. By the decorations, this is a hunting lodge of some sort; there are stags’ heads here and there on the walls, and a bearskin rug before the fire, and all the furniture is that odd false rustic style that everyone seems to prefer in such buildings.

They should probably head for the door to the outside, attempt to steal a couple of horses and put leagues between them and their captors by sunset. But Jaskier has no idea how far Sabrina’s concealment stretches, and an angry sorceress is a bad thing to leave alive behind you.

The door across the room is closed, and Jaskier can see its hinges: it opens outwards. He glances at his companions and mouths _Stay put_ , and pads across the room as quietly as he can, grateful for hours of Coën coaching him to be lighter on his feet, Letho demonstrating how to shift his weight to stay balanced, Ciri insisting he join her in games of sneak-up-on-Papa. (She never manages it - Geralt can hear her _heartbeat_ , after all - but it’s a game everyone involved enjoys.) There’s a set of fire irons hung beside the huge chimney. Jaskier takes three of them: shovel, poker, tongs. The poker he slips into his belt. The shovel and tongs he very, very carefully uses to wedge the door shut. If the rest of the guards are down _that_ corridor, they’ll have a hell of a time getting it open again. If they’re outside, with any luck they’ll _stay_ outside for a while.

Then he turns and tilts his head at Eskel and Milena and gestures to the two remaining doors, asking silently, _Out, and take our chances? Or beard the dragons in their den?_

Eskel glances at Milena. She takes a long look at the door out of this lodge, and then shakes her head a little and squares her shoulders and points at the door to the argument instead. Jaskier nods. Eskel shrugs.

They reach the door together. Jaskier gestures for Milena and Eskel to wait, and cocks his head, listening hard. _Eskel_ could probably hear everything from five rooms away, but Jaskier is, after all, only human.

“... _cannot_ harm my sister!” Marta snaps. Jaskier exchanges a startled look with Milena.

“She’s thrown her lot in with those _animals_ ,” and that’s Agata, bitter and furious. “She’s tainted - no better than _they_ are. You saw how impertinent that _knave_ was - he won’t be so haughty if he knows _she’ll_ pay for it.” Jaskier muffles a growl. He _warned_ them not to call his Witchers that - did they think he was _joking_? And planning to hurt Milena to control _him_ \- charming. Just the sort of plan he’d expect from a backstabbing, treacherous _oathbreaker_ like Agata.

“There’s no need to use Milena,” Marta replies hastily. “The catamite clearly cares for that _beast_ who followed him through the portal. Perverted fool - but we can use that, easily enough.”

Ah. Marta de Roggeven has just been added to Jaskier’s list of ‘people who do not get to leave this lodge alive.’ Admittedly she’s trying to protect her sister - a praiseworthy goal, apart from the fact that she’s the entire reason her sister is _in_ this particular danger - but nobody, _nobody_ threatens Jaskier’s Wolves in front of him and gets away with it.

“Really, a simple spell will solve this whole problem,” Sabrina puts in, clearly trying to soothe her companions’ tempers. “There is no need to harm your sister, nor the Witcher. And what proof have we that the little songbird would _care_ if we hurt them? He turned his back on his entire family, his entire _country_ \- there’s not a loyal bone in his body. Why should he be any more loyal to a woman he’s known barely a year, or a Witcher, for that matter?”

_Rude_. Jaskier only turned his back on Lettenhove and Redania when _they_ cast him away as a sacrifice. As far as he’s concerned, anyone who sends a lad off to be raped to death deserves no loyalty at all. His loyalty to the White Wolf and Eskel - and to all his new family, the Witchers and other inhabitants of Kaer Morhen, Milena _definitely_ included - is stronger than steel.

“What sort of spell?” Marta asks.

“It’s simple enough to take control of a single man’s mind. Enough to make him write a letter, at least.”

“It won’t sound like him,” Agata points out. “His rude little phrases.” _Rude little phrases?_ Really? Clearly all of Agata’s taste is in her mouth.

“Regrettably true,” Sabrina agrees.

“Does it matter?” Marta asks. “It will be his hand - and we can have him prick his finger and sign in blood, or something like that, if you want to. We just need proof we _have_ him, nothing more.”

“It matters,” Agata bites out. “I want that monster in Kaer Morhen to know _exactly_ how scared his cowardly little catamite is. How _helpless_. He _humiliated_ me. Me! A princess of Temeria - my bloodline is older than _Kaedwen_! And that animal dared order me _disowned_ , made me grovel like a peasant in the muck - for the sake of that simpering _trollop_ of a bard!” There’s a crash, as of something fragile being dashed to the flagstone floor. Jaskier exchanges a _look_ with Milena. Simpering trollop? Really? Eskel makes a low noise, deep in his chest, deeply displeased.

“My princess,” Sabrina says, voice full of sympathy and a hint of desperation. Maybe she’s starting to realize that Agata _is_ , in fact, extremely bad news. “This plan of ours _will_ see the Warlord humiliated, I pledge you that. Aye, and his catamite, too. But we must not press too hard, too swiftly, or we shall lose all our advantage. A letter, and a drop of the catamite’s blood - that is enough to begin with. Enough to tell the wolf-lord that for all his warriors’ prowess, we have taken what he most values from under his very nose. He is in our power, and we shall _keep_ him, my princess, and wring every humiliation from him that you desire.”

Well, Jaskier’s probably not going to get a better entrance line than that. He nods to his companions, who nod back, and draws the poker from his belt, swinging it idly in one hand.

They _could_ attempt to sneak in, but Jaskier’s a _bard_ , and this - this is a moment for _drama_.

Unfortunately, the door opens outward, so he won’t be able to kick it in. He swings it all the way open with a flourish instead, and saunters into the room, Eskel and Milena flanking him, all of them grinning wide and nasty at the three women within, who turn to stare at them in shock and dismay.

Well, they stare at Eskel and Jaskier, at the gleaming dagger and the swaying poker. They pay no attention to _Milena_ , which is exactly what Jaskier wants. Milena slips towards Sabrina, padding silently on slippered feet.

“In your power?” Jaskier drawls. “That might not be entirely accurate, my dear treasonous enemies.”

“How did you get out?” Marta blurts.

“ _You_ ,” Agata hisses, glaring at Jaskier like he’s something unpleasant on the bottom of her shoe.

“Me,” Jaskier says mildly, smiling at her with all his teeth.

Sabrina raises her hands and begins to say something in Elder - Jaskier assumes it’s a spell - and then stops, quite abruptly, as Milena’s dagger presses against her throat, edge digging in very slightly. A thin tinge of red appears along the blade. There’s a brief, startled moment of silence.

“Oh,” says Jaskier, grinning wider. “Did you think _I_ was the dangerous one? Tch tch tch - keep your hands where I can see them, Sabrina _darling_.” Sabrina, glaring, spreads her hands flat on the table in front of her. Eskel chuckles darkly.

“Milena!” Marta says, sounding utterly scandalized. “What - you - where did you get that knife?”

Milena smiles at her sister. “My precious Lambert,” she says, poisonously sweet. “He taught me how to use it, too.”

“Now then,” Jaskier says, and is _going_ to say something about dropping the concealment spells and flinging themselves on the Wolf’s mercy - which, if Jaskier has anything to say about it, is going to be roughly _nonexistent_ , but they don’t need to know that - when Agata _shrieks_ with rage and yanks a dagger from her belt, and lunges, not for _Jaskier_ , but for Milena.

It’s the same dagger that felled Eskel - Jaskier can see the black stain along its length, the poison that nearly slew a Witcher and _will_ slay a mortal woman. He yells; Marta de Roggeven screams; Sabrina reels back from her chair and raises her hands in preparation for casting a spell; Eskel swears and steps forward, blocked by the table -

And Milena slides easily to the side as Agata slashes wildly at her, pivots neatly on one slippered foot, and drives her dagger into the princess’s heart.

There’s a moment of utter silence, broken by the _thump_ of Agata’s body landing on the floor. Milena steps past the body and levels the dripping dagger at Sabrina’s throat. The sorceress is white with shock, her spell half-spoken on her lips. “He _did_ say I was the dangerous one,” Milena observes softly. “Be silent.”

Sabrina nods, eyes wide.

“Milly,” Marta squeaks. “You _killed_ her.”

“She threatened my life and my liege lords,” Milena replies, never taking her eyes off Sabrina. “Drop your concealments, sorceress.”

Jaskier is going to make _such_ a song out of this, and Lambert is going to fucking swoon at Milena’s feet. Even more than he usually does, that is.

Sabrina shakes her head, and Milena takes another step forward, bloody dagger easy in her hand, seeming to loom over the sorceress despite being several inches shorter than Sabrina is. You wouldn’t think so small a woman could loom so effectively. “ _Drop them_ ,” Milena orders. “Or I get to tell Lambert I used this dagger _twice_ today.”

“Lambert is going to be very impressed,” Jaskier observes.

“Lambert is always impressed with me,” Milena says. “However, if he finds us _without_ you dropping the concealment spells, Sabrina Glevissig, then I assure you, you will not die as swiftly as _she_ did.”

Eskel rumbles a laugh. “Lambert is going to be furious that you _had_ to use your dagger,” he points out, and snags Marta de Roggeven as she tries to back towards the door. “Sit your aristocratic ass down,” he orders. “And maybe start apologizing to your sister, since I think she’s the only person in the room who cares if you survive to see sunset.”

Jaskier grins nastily at her. “We’ll be hanging Agata’s body from the battlements, if I’ve anything to say about it,” he says. “Yours would provide a lovely symmetry.”

“I am a marchioness!” Marta squeaks. “You - you _can’t_ -”

“I think you’ll find the Wolf plain doesn’t care,” Eskel says. “Never did have much truck with nobles. Mostly a waste of space. _Some_ present company excepted.”

Milena is giving her sister a truly sorrowful look; Eskel is looking at Marta, too. Sabrina opens her mouth, magic sparking around her fingertips as she prepares a spell -

And Jaskier, who has been waiting for this, brings the fireplace poker around in a blow that takes full advantage of the surprising strength in a lutist’s arms. Sabrina goes down in a heap like a sack of bricks. As she falls, there’s an odd feeling like a blanket being lifted, one Jaskier hadn’t even realized was there. The concealment spells, if he had to guess. Yen’s mentioned a few times that being knocked out is one of the things that can break a mage’s concentration, though many spells can be sustained during sleep. The only safe sorceress is an unconscious one.

Jaskier doesn’t want Sabrina _dead_ , though. If nothing else, he needs her alive to make a point to Henselt of Temeria about keeping better track of his courtiers. She’s still breathing; and if the gash on her head is bleeding quite profusely, well, head wounds do that. He sacrifices his doublet to bind the sorceress, and Milena has a spare handkerchief for a gag. Marta watches them, wide-eyed and horrified and apparently too shocky even to scream for the guards. Eskel nods approvingly.

“So,” Jaskier says to Marta, “where are our belongings?”

Trembling, Marta points at a wooden cupboard along the far wall. Milena hastens over, yanking the cupboard doors open to reveal Jaskier’s lute and holdout dagger, a great heap of weapons which must be Eskel’s, and a pair of familiar crystal pendants. She takes those out and tosses them to Jaskier, who contemplates them for a moment, then smiles nastily at Marta de Roggeven and smashes the crystals on the table.

Whole, the crystals allow Yen to find them if she’s _looking_. Smashed, they send a signal which will alert her to their location even if she’s blind drunk and fast asleep. Which she won’t be, not with Jaskier and Milena _and_ Eskel all missing. She’ll be looking, and looking hard.

If there aren’t several dozen Witchers here inside ten minutes, Jaskier will eat his own boots without salt.

Eskel wanders over to the cabinet and starts sliding all of his various weapons back into their proper sheaths, starting, naturally, with slinging his swords over his shoulder. Milena sits down across from her sister and begins cleaning her dagger on another handkerchief - Jaskier has to wonder how many she has.

“Marta,” Milena says quietly, not looking away from the blade of her knife as she wipes it clean of Agata’s blood. “You have to know this is a death sentence. Treason always is. If we’re very, very lucky, our parents and our sister won’t die for your folly, too.”

Marta swallows hard. “I - I have committed no treason.”

“You broke the treaty,” Jaskier says. “King Vizimir signed it; you’ve broken his oath _for_ him, and I’ll wager he’s not going to be pleased.” He bares his teeth at her, a mockery of a smile. “And I might, perhaps, have been willing to argue for your life - I’m fond of Milena, and have no desire to give her grief - but Marta, _darling_ , you offered harm to Eskel. I can’t forgive that.”

Eskel turns from strapping the last of his weapons back on and shrugs. “Better me than Milena,” he says calmly. “Here, lark, your lute.”

Jaskier puts the poker down - _out_ of Marta’s reach - and takes his lute, running careful fingers over it to make sure it hasn’t been harmed. “I refuse to forgive suggesting that _either_ of you should be tortured,” he says, to the lute strings and his own hands. “Milena is as dear as a sister to me, and you - Eskel, you are half my heart.”

Eskel steps around the table and bends his head to kiss Jaskier’s cheek, gentle and warm, before taking up a position in front of the door, sword in hand. Milena makes a sort of soft cooing noise. Marta chokes a little. Jaskier gives her a long, cold look, and she shrinks under his gaze like a wilting flower. “You kidnapped us,” Jaskier says quietly. “You did not yourself do us any harm, but you were willing to _allow_ us to be harmed. You have very nearly started a war, and that war would have slain many, many innocents. I do not think I can argue for your life, Marta de Roggeven. What plea can _you_ make?”

“I wished to see Redania united once again,” Marta says, and Jaskier thinks she means to sound brave and stalwart, but mostly she just sounds scared. “I am loyal to king and country - what could you understand of that?”

“Loyalty to a king who has proven his willingness to sacrifice innocents is rather shortsighted,” Jaskier observes. “And you do know that every piece of Redania the Wolf has taken, was taken because its lords were doing terrible things, and Vizimir was turning a blind eye to them? He took Kovir because the king was fool enough to invade Caingorn; he’s got half of Aedirn because they were trying to murder every nonhuman north of the Dyphne.”

Marta is shaking her head; Jaskier thinks if she was a little younger she might have covered her ears and mouthed nonsense to drown him out. “You’re _Redanian_ ,” she says furiously. “How can you deny the rights of the nobility? What does it _matter_ what they were doing to - to peasants and animals?”

Milena sighs and sheathes her dagger; Eskel holds the other out, and Jaskier passes it to her, and that one disappears behind her skirts as well. “Marta,” she says wearily. “If you’re just going to antagonize the Consort of the Warlord of the North, would you mind being silent instead? I would very much prefer not to see you die in front of me.”

Marta gapes at her. “You - you’re not even _trying_ to help!” she blurts.

Milena stands and sweeps her skirts into place with a graceful gesture. “You kidnapped two of my liege lords, insulted them, allied yourself with a woman who has now attempted to kill _both_ of them, and in doing so have broken a treaty which one of them _wrote_. Oh, and you poisoned me, tore me from my consort’s arms, and kidnapped _me_ , and your allies threatened to torture me to coerce my liege lord into betraying _his_ beloved lord. You’ve attainted our entire family - frankly, our parents will be lucky to keep their _lives_ after this. Marika will be lucky to marry a baron’s fourth son - she might well end up taking orders, just to escape the scandal. What, precisely, do you think I could do to help you? You haven’t even tried to _apologize_ , Marta.” She sighs again. “But if you want my advice: throw yourself on Eskel’s mercy. Down on your knees and _beg_ , Marta. Witchers don’t kill humans if they can help it. If there’s anyone in this room with the power to spare you, and who might possibly be convinced to do so, it’s him.”

Marta stares wildly from her sister to Jaskier, and clearly reads the truth in her sister’s anguished face, the barely-leashed murderous rage in Jaskier’s expression. Then, slowly, she turns to look at Eskel, who is watching the door, apparently ignoring the entire conversation. Jaskier waits, wondering what she’ll choose. She’s proud enough that he can’t quite imagine her going to her knees to beg, but she’s _smart_ enough - case in point, she clearly planned this whole scheme, and if it was shortsighted and doomed to failure in the long run, it _worked_ in the initial execution - that she must know there’s no other way for her to survive this stunt. Hells, even if they turn her over to King Vizimir, _he’ll_ probably execute her for breaking the treaty - he’ll hardly dare do anything else, too afraid of the Wolf to let any of his nobles risk destroying the fragile peace that lets him keep his throne.

Finally, Marta rises from her chair, and walks slowly around to stand in front of Eskel, and sinks to her knees, bowing her head to bare her neck. “I beg you, my lord,” she says, miserable and furious and terrified, “not for my own life, but for my kin. They knew nothing. Let my own life pay the whole price, my lord; let my death expunge the taint. Spare my family. Let them not pay for the errors that were mine alone.”

Jaskier can feel his eyebrows rising. _That_ was not what he expected. But - it makes sense. Family is everything, for most Redanian nobles: family, and the sacred noble line.

Eskel gives Jaskier a baffled, helpless look. He is _not_ used to having women begging at his feet for mercy - it just doesn’t come up very much. And he’s a Witcher: they _protect_ humans. Marta is a treasonous fool and both too smart and too stupid for her own good, but she’s not a monster. Not even the sort of monstrous human the White Wolf’s army was formed to defeat. And Milena is giving Jaskier a sort of hopeful wide-eyed look - she doesn’t want her sister dead, of course she doesn’t -

Ah, _fuck_.

Jaskier scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t like Marta de Roggeven, and he’ll never forgive her for threatening Eskel - for arranging this whole clusterfuck of a situation - but he can’t kill a kneeling woman in cold blood, and he certainly can’t ask _Eskel_ to do so. Not gentle Eskel. What the fuck are they supposed to do with her, though? Turn her over to Vizimir? She’ll be dead within the day. Imprison her in Kaer Morhen? He has no idea if the keep even _has_ dungeons, and Witchers don’t have any sort of arrangement for keeping prisoners. And her fear would stink up the keep horridly. Kaer Morhen is a sanctuary for the Witchers; Jaskier can’t do that to them. Have her take an oath to Melitele? Yeah, they saw how well _that_ works with Agata. Even disowned and sworn to a goddess, Marta would be a danger, and Jaskier isn’t going to suggest a tactic that has failed once already.

She _will_ have to be disowned, at the very least, and probably exiled from Redania - that will give her father and King Vizimir some way to take out their fear and anger on the proper target. Setting her loose to wander is either its own sort of death sentence - a noblewoman alone is easy prey for all sorts of predators, human or otherwise - or a good way to hand a weapon straight to the Wolf’s enemies.

So she has to end up somewhere in the Warlord’s lands, watched by someone who is utterly loyal to the Wolf and has reason to not feel bitter about being asked to take on such a duty.

...Ah.

“Milena,” he says thoughtfully, “I think you’re going to be getting a junior lady-in-waiting. Liliana of Daevon, I believe her name is. Baron Filip’s youngest daughter. She’s fifteen, if I recall correctly.”

“...I look forward to meeting her,” Milena says, sounding very confused as to why he’s bringing such a topic up _now_.

“In return for which,” Jaskier sighs, “I am quite sure Baron Filip will be glad to take on the duty of keeping track of the disowned former marchioness, Marta once of Roggeven.”

Milena’s eyes go wide and she squeaks. Eskel’s shoulders sag in relief. And Marta de Roggeven bursts into tears that Jaskier suspects are equal parts gratitude and grief.

At which point a portal _finally_ opens beside the table.


	5. Chapter 5

The first Witcher through the portal is Geralt, steel sword out, a snarl on his handsome face that turns abruptly to stark relief when he sees Jaskier and Eskel. Aubry is behind him, and Lambert behind Aubry, both of them well-armed and clearly half-feral; and behind them, as Jaskier had predicted, at least two dozen more, who pour through the portal and out past Eskel into the lodge. Lambert makes a beeline for Milena; Aubry skids to a halt beside Eskel, sword raised, and glares down at Marta.

“Take prisoners!” Jaskier calls after the small horde of Witchers. There’s a low answering growl of what he sure as hell hopes is agreement. The guards and young Aleksander have done them no harm, after all. “Aubry, can you take Marta de Roggeven and this sorceress back to Kaer Morhen, please? They both need guarding.”

Aubry nods sharply, sheaths his sword, and picks Sabrina up, slinging her over a shoulder - she doesn’t even twitch - and loops a hand around Marta’s arm, hauling her to her feet and steering her through the portal.

Then and only then does Jaskier let himself fall into Geralt’s arms. Lambert already has Milena wrapped up in a tight embrace, his head tucked into the curve of her throat; Milena is sobbing quietly and clutching him just as hard. Poor girl; she’s never killed anyone before, and she held it together _marvelously_ , but Jaskier really can’t blame her for losing her composure now.

Geralt’s arms around him are as strong and safe as the walls of Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier buries his face against Geralt’s shoulder and _clings_. This whole dreadful day - Eskel’s injury and Agata’s madness and Sabrina’s threats - he reaches behind him blindly, flailing his hand, and then Eskel is there too, all three of them wrapped around each other and holding on tight.

Thank the _gods_.

“So,” Jaskier says after a long moment of just holding his lovers, “out of curiosity, where are we?”

“Day’s ride south of Roggeven,” Geralt rumbles.

“Huh. Probably a de Roggeven hunting lodge, then,” Jaskier guesses. “Eskel needs to go see Triss. And there’s all sorts of political mess. And someone should bring Agata’s body through, though I’m not sure hanging it from the battlements is really a good idea. And -”

“Little lark,” Geralt murmurs, “take Eskel to Triss. We have this under control.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says, and steps back a little, brushing a kiss over Geralt’s lips. “Oh! You should send the boy - Aleksander - to bring a message to the Duke de Roggeven, he’s pretty much completely uninvolved in this -”

“ _Go_ ,” Geralt says, smiling a little. “I want you safe in Kaer Morhen, lark.”

Jaskier nods and steers Eskel towards the portal with the arm he’s still got around his waist, following Lambert and Milena through.

*

Triss fusses as much as Jaskier expected her to, and Eskel puts up with it with surprisingly good grace. Jaskier himself is hugged by what sure as hell feels like every Witcher in the keep, which is startling and flattering, and by Yen, which is shocking mostly because they’re still in public, and then glommed by Ciri, who refuses to let go of him. Vesemir pulls him off to the side of the great hall - no one is willing to leave the hall until Geralt returns - and Jaskier tells him what happened, stroking Ciri’s hair gently and trying to keep his rage out of his voice. She doesn’t need to know how horrible the last day has been.

“Hm,” Vesemir says, once Jaskier has laid the bones of the whole matter out, including what he’s decided they ought to do with Marta de Roggeven. “Well. I can handle that, at least until tomorrow. Easy enough to lock her in a room; and we’ve already put dimeritium shackles on Sabrina, so she’ll keep as long as we like.”

“Lovely,” Jaskier says. “Out of curiosity, is Oxenfurt still standing?”

Vesemir hesitates. “Most of it,” he allows at last. “Might be a touch traumatized, after having half the army of the Warlord go through looking for you.”

“Well,” Jaskier says, “I suppose I won’t expect to be invited back.” Vesemir snorts a rather startled laugh.

The portal flares, and a line of Witchers comes through, some of them herding a handful of men wearing de Roggeven livery and terrified expressions, one carrying Agata’s body like a sack of refuse. The last one through is Geralt, of course, who glances over to check that Jaskier is alright before heading for Yen, sharing a few quiet words with her, and then going to Eskel where he’s been laid down on the dais for Triss to tend. Triss nods and gestures briefly, and Eskel stands, Geralt putting an arm around his shoulders and frowning slightly at him, and they both head for Jaskier.

“Early night for us, I think,” Jaskier says. “Ask Jan to send someone around with a tray for four? I expect Ciri’s going to spend the night cuddled with her Uncle Eskel, aren’t you, cub?”

Ciri nods firmly.

“I’ll send a tray along,” Vesemir agrees. “Go reassure your Wolves, lad.” He claps Jaskier on the shoulder and heads for the Witchers herding the scared de Roggeven men into a corner of the hall, and Jaskier falls into step with Geralt and Eskel, heading for Geralt’s room and its enormous bed.

Geralt pushes Eskel down to sit on the bed as soon as they get in the door, and kneels down to unfasten his boots. Jaskier and Ciri help Eskel disarm himself - Jaskier will never stop being impressed by how many weapons a Witcher can carry - and then Ciri throws her arms around Eskel’s shoulders and clings to _him_ instead of Jaskier for a while. Jaskier takes the golden opportunity to have a good look at Eskel’s injury, which, thanks to Triss and Witcher healing, now looks as though it’s at least a month old, a pale scar instead of a bleeding gash. Thank _fuck_.

“You’re fussing,” Eskel observes, as Jaskier and Geralt chivvy him into the middle of the bed and out of the shreds of his tunic. Ciri curls up with her head on his shoulder, and Eskel wraps his arm around her and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Hey now, cub, I’m fine.”

“You were _gone_ ,” Ciri says, voice very small. “And then you were _stabbed_.”

“This is very true,” Eskel allows. “But another night’s sleep and I’ll be good as new, and Princess Agata is very, very dead.”

“Who slew her?” Geralt asks, as Jaskier lays claim to Eskel’s other shoulder, resting one hand gently over the new scar on Eskel’s stomach. Geralt curls himself around Jaskier, hand big and warm atop Jaskier’s, breath hot against the nape of Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier lets himself relax at last. He’s home, and safe, and his family is here with him.

“Milena,” Eskel says, grinning. “Lambert’s taught her well.”

“Oh _wow_ ,” Ciri breathes. “ _Milena_ killed someone?”

“Yes, and I don’t think she enjoyed it much, so don’t go asking her for all the gory details,” Jaskier tells her. “Also she’s very unhappy just now about her sister, so...eh, go easy on her, little menace.”

“I’ll be very nice, I promise,” Ciri says solemnly. “And I won’t ask unless she tells me about it herself. Princess Agata’s the one who stabbed _you_ , right, Jas?”

“The very same,” Jaskier nods. “Apparently she didn’t care to keep her vows.” Geralt growls softly behind him, and Jaskier leans back a little, trusting his weight to his Wolf.

“Then I’m double glad Milena killed her,” Ciri says, nodding decisively.

“So am I,” Geralt says softly.

They stay curled up together, holding each other and taking comfort in the warmth and sheer _presence_ of their companions, Eskel dozing off quietly, until Jan knocks on the door with their supper. Eskel stays awake just about long enough to devour a meal large enough for three men - thankfully Jan knows how much an injured Witcher can eat, and brought enough for seven unmutated humans - before falling deeply asleep without even managing to get under the covers. Jaskier and Ciri grin at each other as they tug the blankets out from under him and tuck him in, and then Ciri yawns so wide her jaw cracks and curls up next to Eskel again, and is out like a blown-out candle.

“She didn’t sleep last night,” Geralt says softly. “No more did I.”

Jaskier turns and takes his beloved’s face in his hands and kisses Geralt as deeply and devoutly as he can. “I am so sorry,” he says quietly when they break apart, resting their foreheads together, sharing breath. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am, my love. I should have known going to Oxenfurt was a fucking terrible idea -”

“You did know, and we thought we had taken adequate precautions,” Geralt rumbles. “Twenty Witchers _should_ have been enough. Would have been, without the fucking sorceress.”

“I got Eskel _stabbed_ ,” Jaskier says miserably. “He could have _died_.”

“We’re Witchers,” Geralt says gently. “We know the risks.”

“He wouldn’t have been there without me,” Jaskier protests. “It’s my fucking _fault_ -”

Geralt puts his fingers gently against Jaskier’s lips. “No. It is Agata’s fault. Marta de Roggeven’s. Sabrina Glevissig’s. We prepared as well as we could. We failed to plan for everything. That is the nature of battle plans, little lark. Sometimes they fail. And yet, you are here. Eskel is here. None of our people have died, and our enemies are defeated, and you are safe. That is a victory, my little lark.”

“It doesn’t feel like one,” Jaskier whispers against Geralt’s fingers. “I got Eskel _stabbed_. He - how can you forgive me for that?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Geralt murmurs. “Far better Eskel than you, lark. He survived. You would not have. Given a choice, he would have _chosen_ to take that knife.”

“He should never have had to,” Jaskier protests. “I - fuck it, Geralt, I can’t leave your lands again, can I? Not without putting everyone around me in danger.”

“Hm,” says Geralt, thoughtfully, and frowns. “Talk about that with the council, later,” he decides at last. “For now, sleep. You’re safe. Eskel’s safe. I have you, little lark. You’re home.”

*

Jaskier wakes slowly, wrapped in warmth and comfort and the familiar smells of Geralt’s rooms, Geralt’s bed. There’s a soft conversation going on behind him, though, and something about the tones makes him think it’s one he needs to pay attention to.

“... _failed_ you, Wolf,” he hears, and that’s Eskel’s voice, and oh _fuck_ no. Jaskier sits up fast and turns to see Eskel kneeling in front of Geralt, hands fisted on his knees, looking anguished, and so focused on Geralt that he doesn’t even notice Jaskier moving. Ciri, thank the gods, is nowhere to be found; probably gone to breakfast already. “I let your lark be _kidnapped_.”

Geralt sinks to his own knees on the rug in front of Eskel and gathers Eskel’s hands into his. “No,” he murmurs. “You brought him home to me. You are my good right hand, always.”

“Fat lot of good I was, bleeding all over everything,” Eskel says, voice rich with self-loathing. “ _Milena_ had to kill that toad Agata, and she got us out of those chains, too. I was a _liability_ , Wolf.”

“You are my good right hand,” Geralt repeats firmly. “You kept them safe; you brought them home. You have never failed me.”

Jaskier shifts slowly to sit on the edge of the bed. “You did not fail,” he says, and Eskel’s head whips up, amber eyes fixing on him. “If you hadn’t been there, Eskel, it would have been Milena bleeding. Or me. You took out that guard - I _might_ have been able to do that, but I’m not a hand-to-hand fighter, you know that as well as I do, and if I hadn’t it would have been Milena with two people’s blood on her hands, and one of them someone I suspect she knew and cared about - one of her own father’s armsmen. I failed _you_ , Eskel - if I hadn’t insisted on going to Oxenfurt, none of this would have happened.”

Eskel considers this, expressions chasing each other across his face too fast for Jaskier to parse them. At last he drops his gaze and sighs, and lifts his hands - Geralt’s still wrapped around them - to his lips, and kisses Geralt’s knuckles before letting go and shuffling forward to rest his hands on Jaskier’s knees.

“We’re both going to feel guilty about this for a while, aren’t we, catmint,” he asks, and Jaskier snorts a rather rueful laugh and nods. “Then I’ll make a deal with you. Whatever wrong you think you’ve done me, I’ll forgive - if you’ll forgive me _my_ failure.”

“Done,” Jaskier says at once, leaning forward to seal the promise with a kiss. “Any failure you think you have committed is forgiven, if you forgive me _mine_.”

“Done,” Eskel agrees, and reaches up to lace a hand through Jaskier’s hair and draw him into another kiss, long and slow and gentle, forgiveness given and accepted in equal measure. Geralt is watching them with a soft smile when they finally part. He stands and comes over to join them, resting one hand on Eskel’s shoulder, one on Jaskier’s.

“My lark,” he murmurs. “My right hand. Home safe.”

“Home safe,” Jaskier agrees. “Fuck, I’m not leaving again for a godsdamned _year_.”

“Sounds good to me,” Eskel sighs.

“Got to go intimidate Henselt of Temeria again,” Geralt points out. “ _And_ Vizimir of Redania.”

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier mutters. “Bring Lambert. He probably wants to bite something right now _anyhow_.”

Eskel barks a sudden laugh, standing and offering Jaskier a hand out of the bed. “There’s a lesson for them! Act up once, you get the bard’s diplomacy. Act up twice, you get _Lambert’s_ version.”

Jaskier can’t help laughing along. “I can’t deny he’d be _blunter_ about it.”

Geralt’s soft chuckle is a glorious sound. “Have to rewrite all the treaties to take the curse-words out,” he observes, and they go up to breakfast with Jaskier between them, laughing all the way.

*

Jaskier spends the morning drafting letters: one to Henselt of Temeria, informing him of what his court sorceress has been up to and inviting him to explain to the Wolf why this doesn’t count as a breach of their treaty; one to Vizimir of Redania, informing _him_ of what one of his dukes’ daughters has been doing and inviting him to figure out how to apologize for not keeping a better leash on his nobles; one to the Duke de Roggeven, laying out exactly what his eldest daughter has done and the consequences the Wolf will require; one to Baron Filip, inviting his daughter up to Kaer Morhen to become Ciri’s second lady-in-waiting and requesting and requiring, in return, his assistance in keeping a wayward noblewoman from making any further trouble; and one to Pris and Shani, apologizing for his rather abrupt departure and inviting them to visit Kaer Morhen anytime they care to come.

It’ll take a while before any of the various recipients can _respond_ , of course, but Yen sends the letters off by miniature portals with a broad and slightly cruel smile.

“Thanks, Yen,” Jaskier says, once the last letter is off to cause Baron Filip _another_ mild heart attack, poor man - though he dealt marvelously well with having Jaskier and Ciri and a whole cadre of Witchers descend on him, which is of course why he’s being honored by his daughter’s acceptance into Ciri’s household. “For yesterday, too.”

“I will have a new necklace for you soon,” Yen says, ignoring the thanks. “Seraphina said she’d help me, and Istredd has some ideas. _This_ one won’t be blocked by anything short of the entire combined strength of Aretuza.”

Jaskier hugs her gently around the shoulders. “You saved us,” he says quietly. “Your necklaces, and your lessons on how to deal with mages. _Thank_ you, Yen.”

“Hmph,” Yen says, but she hugs him back, tightly if briefly. “Get in fewer scrapes, little flower. I have better things to do than rescue your pretty ass.”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” Jaskier teases, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “I knew you loved me really.”

“Hmph,” Yen says again, and punches him gently in the shoulder, and Jaskier leaves her to her work with a light heart. Darling Yen! _Cold as ice the mage’s heart / hard as stone her soul / so she wishes you to think / conceals the truth of how she feels…_

With his diplomatic obligations set aside, he goes hunting for Milena, and finds her and Ciri working on embroidery; Ciri has improved quite a lot, really. Her flowers look like flowers and not colorful hedgehogs.

He sits down with them and watches their needles flash for a while. Milena is quiet, even quieter than she usually is.

“You did marvelously, yesterday,” Jaskier says at last.

Milena bows her head and swallows hard. “I hated it,” she whispers. “Killing her. _Gods_. Lambert will be so disappointed - I _hated_ it.”

Oh, Jaskier’s not letting _that_ stand for another minute. He taps her wrist gently. “Put that aside, and come with me,” he says. He knows where Lambert is, as it happens: he’s guarding the room where Marta and Sabrina are being held, having volunteered for the duty mostly so he can scare the absolute crap out of them at his leisure. “Ciri, you can go clean up for dinner if you like.”

“I’m coming with you,” Ciri says. “Milena’s my lady-in-waiting and I’m supposed to protect her.”

Milena manages a trembling smile. “Thank you, cub,” she murmurs.

Jaskier shrugs and leads them both down to where Lambert is amusing himself by growling softly, just at the edge of human hearing, outside the door to the room where the women have been locked up. He perks up as soon as he sees Milena, and then immediately bristles. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Milena is worried you will be disappointed in her, because she hated killing,” Jaskier says bluntly. Milena flinches a little, hands knotting in her skirt.

Lambert hastens forward and drops to his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his, lifting them gently from her skirts and pressing kisses to each finger, to each palm as she slowly uncurls them. “I threw up the first time I killed a fucking _deer_ ,” he says softly, looking up at her with an expression of such raw devotion that it makes Jaskier’s heart hurt. Ciri puts a hand over her mouth, looking like she’d rather like to go _awww_ and sensibly muffling herself. “You - you weren’t even _raised_ to this, Milena. And you did everything _perfectly_ , Eskel told me. You defended yourself, you held it together until you were safe - fucking hell, Milena, I’m so proud of you I could fucking _sing_ , and nobody wants that. Killing’s _horrible_ , and I’m fucking furious that you _had_ to, but I - fuck, Milena, of course you hated it. I hope you never have to kill a fucking thing ever again. But you did me proud. Did _yourself_ proud. You’re - you’re a damn wonder.”

Milena is crying, but she’s smiling, too, and she collapses into Lambert’s arms with a little sob of mingled relief and misery, and Lambert stands up with her in his arms and nods to Kolgrim, the other Witcher on guard, and carries her away, murmuring sweet nothings - or, knowing Lambert, curse words - into her hair.

“He’s really sweet with her,” Ciri observes once they’re far enough away that even Witcher hearing probably won’t catch it.

“So he is,” Jaskier says, tousling her hair gently. “For Lambert values of sweet. C’mon, dinner for us.”

“Do you think _I’ll_ be that unhappy when I make my first kill?” Ciri asks. “Real kill, I mean. Not just rabbits and ducks.” She’s taken hunting pretty regularly by various Witchers, and loves it. “I don’t _like_ killing rabbits, but then we eat them. Papa says you should only kill things when they’re dangers to yourself or other people, or when you’re going to use them for food or clothing or something else you _need_.”

“Your Papa is, as usual, quite correct,” Jaskier says, grinning down at her as they head towards the great hall. “And Agata was definitely a danger to Milena _and_ other people, so it was a - a just kill, I suppose. But there’s a big difference between killing a rabbit for dinner and killing a person - someone who can _talk_ , and think, and so on.” He sighs. “I’ve never actually killed anyone. I think I’d be about as torn up about it as Milena is, if I had. It’s not something to do lightly. So yes, sweet cub, I think you probably will be unhappy after you kill your first human. Honestly, you should probably be unhappy after you kill _any_ human. Even if they’re monstrous, they’re still _people_ , and that’s something you shouldn’t forget. That’s why your Papa likes to go right for the kings and commanders: he doesn’t want to kill anyone he doesn’t have to.”

Ciri nods solemnly. “When I’m grown, I’ll do the same,” she promises. “I won’t ever forget they’re _people_. Just like my Papa.”

“You’re going to be magnificent when you’re grown, just like your Papa is,” Jaskier promises her, in perfect honesty.

*

Jaskier is honestly thankful when supper is followed by a brawl, the Witchers needing to work off some of their adrenaline from the last few days. He’s not really feeling like singing just now. He’s also thankful that Eskel _doesn’t_ join the brawl, though he rather looks like he wants to. Triss would give him such hell for daring to get into a fight after having _just_ been patched up.

Yen leans over as the brawl really gets going, and says, “I’ll get the little menace up to bed. Take your Wolves off and let them work off _their_ jitters, little flower.”

Jaskier grins at her and stands, pulling Geralt up with him and offering a hand to Eskel. “Thank you, I think I will do just that,” he says, and Yen laughs.

Eskel hesitates. Jaskier gives him a long look as Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist and tucks his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder. “Are you genuinely not interested tonight,” Jaskier asks very quietly, only for Geralt and Eskel’s ears, “or are you having an attack of misplaced guilt?”

Eskel blinks up at him for a moment, and then his mouth twists in a tiny, rueful smile. “Misplaced guilt,” he admits, and stands, taking Jaskier’s hand and leaning in to kiss first Jaskier and then Geralt, gentle almost-chaste brushes of his lips against theirs.

“Come on,” Jaskier coaxes, and leads the way out of the hall.

Geralt nuzzles at the curve of Jaskier’s throat as the door to his rooms closes behind them. “And have you got a plan for the night, little lark?”

Jaskier hums and lets his head fall back onto Geralt’s shoulder, baring his throat to two Wolves, and shivers when they both immediately take advantage of the offered vulnerability to bite gentle kisses into his skin. “I do, actually,” he says, and both Witchers hum a question. Jaskier laughs.

“So,” he says. “Both Eskel and I are having trouble believing that the other is actually _fine_.” Eskel makes a sort of amused, rueful noise. “And Triss will kill us if we make Eskel do anything too strenuous and ruin the lovely healing job she did.” _Geralt_ makes an amused, rueful noise. They have him sandwiched neatly between them, Geralt pressed against his back, Eskel plastered against his front, and their hands wander over his sides and each other, huge and warm and gentle.

“So I was thinking that Eskel should sit back and let us see him hale and well,” Jaskier says breathlessly, “and watch while you fuck me, my wolf. And then Eskel, you can have my ass, or my mouth, whichever you prefer, my heart. Nice and slow and easy so you don’t strain anything.”

“You are a _menace_ , catmint,” Eskel says, a low hungry growl.

“So I am,” Jaskier agrees. “Complaints?”

“None,” Geralt says, and bites at the curve of Jaskier’s shoulder, hard enough to bruise. Jaskier yelps and shudders between his lovers. “Strip, little lark.”

“Move, then,” Jaskier chuckles, and Geralt hums and steps back just far enough to give Jaskier room to tug his clothing off. Both of his Witchers are stripping just as hastily, all of their clothes ending up in an untidy heap on the hearth, but Jaskier finishes first and wriggles out from between his lovers, diving onto the bed and squirming into the middle of it before flipping over to grin up at them. He’s met with two expressions of entirely flattering hunger, amber eyes and golden blown black with desire, and the sight of two of the handsomest men on the continent, stark naked and _clearly_ enjoying the view.

“Come on, my loves,” Jaskier beckons them, and they both _pounce_ , like the Wolves they are, and Jaskier is pinned beneath two heavy bodies and a messy, three-way kiss that’s all teeth and tongues and laughter.

Finally Eskel pulls away and sits back against the heap of pillows by the headboard, and Geralt takes full advantage of having Jaskier all to himself, kissing him breathless, until the only thing Jaskier can do is lie there and moan in pleasure.

“Beautiful,” Eskel murmurs. “Look at you, Wolf, you and our lark together. Loveliest sight in the world.”

Oh _gods_ , Eskel’s voice makes everything even _more_ , somehow, sharper or deeper or maybe just _better_ , and from the way Geralt groans and his prick twitches against Jaskier’s hip, he quite agrees.

“Up on your knees, little lark,” Geralt rumbles, rolling away, and Jaskier makes a little noise of dismay even as he shuffles up onto his knees, facing Eskel. Geralt is back in moments, slotting into place behind Jaskier with one arm curling around Jaskier’s waist, and Eskel licks his lips and shifts a little, his prick twitching.

“Lovely,” he says, voice low and dark and pleased. “So lovely, both of you. Going to sing for us, lark?”

“Would you like that?” Jaskier asks - gasps, really, as Geralt picks that moment to bite down on his shoulder and slide a slick finger over his hole.

“Yes,” Eskel says. “Tell me what Geralt’s doing, lark. Sing your pleasure for us.”

“Fuck, are you sure _I’m_ the bard in this bed?” Jaskier asks. “Ohhh _fuck_ , Geralt, have I mentioned recently how much I love your hands? You have such fucking good hands, gods, your _fingers_ \- yes, fuck, right _there_ , do Witchers have enhanced _aim_ to go with everything else? _Any old time of the day or the night / a Witcher will hit you just perfectly right_ -”

Eskel guffaws; Geralt muffles a chuckle against Jaskier’s hair and adds another finger, which makes _three_ if Jaskier is counting correctly, and twists them just so, and Jaskier’s song breaks off into a full-throated moan. “Fuck, _please_ , Geralt.”

“Please?” Geralt murmurs in his ear. “Please what, little lark? Do that again?” He _does_ , and Jaskier claws at the arm around his waist and writhes with pleasure.

“Please _fuck me_ , Geralt,” he gasps. “You absolute _tease_.”

“What do you think, Eskel?” Geralt asks. “Should I give him what he wants?”

“Hm,” Eskel says, and Jaskier gives him his very best pleading expression, wide eyes and slightly-parted lips. Eskel chuckles. “Catmint,” he says fondly. “Intoxicating and fucking _addictive_ , you are. Go on, Wolf. Let me see you fuck him.”

“Your wish,” Geralt says, low and dark and _hungry_ , and slides his fingers out of Jaskier, and _waits_ , the dreadful man, as Jaskier whines and shudders and presses eagerly back against him, lets his head fall back onto Geralt’s shoulder and his eyes slip closed and just _feels_ , every inch of his skin desperate to be touched.

“You’re right, he is a tease,” Eskel observes, sounding somewhere between amused and _ravenous_. “I can see why, though. You’re fucking lovely like this, lark, all strung out and singing for us.”

“Dreadful, _both_ of you - oh _fuck_ ,” Jaskier yelps, as Geralt takes advantage of his moment of inattention to nudge the head of his prick into Jaskier’s ass. “Oh, oh fuck, I take it back, you’re _wonderful_ , both of you, wonderful dreadful teases with _absolutely glorious pricks_ , fuck, please, _please_ , my wolf -”

Geralt growls softly against Jaskier’s ear. “Little lark, you sing so well for us.”

“Well it’s not a song I intend to sing for a larger audience, I must admit,” Jaskier gasps, and then loses all of his breath at once as Geralt pushes into him, so deep it makes his vision blur. He makes _some_ sort of noise, breathless and hoarse, and Geralt growls, and _Eskel_ growls, and oh _fuck_ it’s good.

And then a broad, callused hand wraps around his prick, and Jaskier _wails_ his pleasure. A heavy, warm body presses against his front, and Jaskier pries his eyes open to watch Eskel kissing Geralt over his shoulder, which is damned near the finest sight in the whole fucking _world_. Jaskier could watch them kissing _forever_. They’re so fucking _good_ together, Geralt’s pale hair against Eskel’s dark, amber eyes and golden both closed in lazy pleasure, drinking the soft moans from each other’s mouths.

_The Wolf and his shadow twined together / strength to strength and heart to heart / amber and gold and passion-dark / beautiful as the deep sky hung with stars…_

“Our lark is composing again,” Eskel murmurs against Geralt’s lips. “We must not be distracting enough.”

“Hm,” Geralt replies, and blinks golden eyes open slowly, and two Wolves turn to look at Jaskier thoughtfully. The air of utterly calm appraisal is somewhat ruined by the way Geralt’s prick twitches _inside_ him, of course. Jaskier shivers and presses back against Geralt, forward again into Eskel’s hand, and the Witchers watch him hungrily as he does it again, again, fucks himself in tiny increments because he _can’t_ move any farther than that, not trapped between them as he is, and makes increasingly desperate sounds in the back of his throat, the delicious sensations and the incredible thrill of being _watched_ pushing him ever closer to the edge. Gods, he feels like prey caught between two predators, and he wants them to fucking _devour_ him already.

“Please,” he begs, not entirely sure what he’s begging _for_. “Please, fuck, my wolves, my loves -”

“Shh, we have you,” Eskel murmurs, and leans forward to kiss him, gentle and warm and soothing. Geralt makes a low, pleased noise and nudges Jaskier’s knees a little wider apart. Eskel breaks the kiss when Jaskier starts to need to _breathe_ , and shifts back to sit against the pillows again, letting go of Jaskier’s prick. “Come here, catmint,” he invites, and Jaskier falls forward onto his elbows, licking his lips at the sight of Eskel’s prick already _dripping_ with arousal.

“Hm,” Geralt says approvingly, and draws back slowly. Jaskier whimpers and opens his mouth and does his absolute damnedest to swallow Eskel’s lovely prick down - he can’t get all of it, fucking Witcher endowments, are they _all_ hung like gods? - and Eskel laces both hands through his hair, and Geralt braces his hands on Jaskier’s hips, and then they’re moving in perfect unison, filling Jaskier at both ends, slow and smooth and _relentless_ , both of them growling soft and dangerous deep in their chest.

Jaskier gives himself over to it, moaning around his mouthful and trying desperately to press back against Geralt - with absolutely no success, of course, Geralt’s hold unbreakable as steel - and lets the pleasure wash everything else from his mind.

Eskel comes first, gasping and stroking shaking hands through Jaskier’s hair as Jaskier does his best to swallow every drop down, and slides down the bed to kiss Jaskier hungrily. Geralt growls _loudly_ , pleased and feral, and his thrusts lose their careful rhythm, and Jaskier whines against Eskel’s lips and would beg if he could find the words; and then Geralt goes still, buried as deep in Jaskier as he can get, and bites down _hard_ on Jaskier’s shoulder as he peaks -

And reaches around to wrap a slick hand around Jaskier’s prick, and Jaskier follows him over that glorious precipice with a breathless, silent wail of pleasure.

He comes back to himself tucked between two furnace-hot bodies, one broad hand petting his hair, another stroking soothingly down his arm. “Little lark,” Geralt murmurs, “singing so sweetly for us.”

“Catmint,” Eskel agrees. “So sweet for us.”

“Mm,” Jaskier says, snuggling down between them. “My sweet wolves. Kiss me.”

A three-way kiss is never anything but messy and inelegant, but Jaskier loves it all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who has left comments and kudos; I really can't tell you how much they mean to me. I am always happy to answer questions or chat on tumblr or discord.
> 
> And it's going to be slower going now that I'm back at work, but I promise I am working on more!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] I Have Heart-Fire and Singing to Give](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348208) by [AceOfTigers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTigers/pseuds/AceOfTigers)
  * [Perhaps the Day After](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357871) by Anonymous 




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